dave:
> Rob wrote:
>
> >I wonder if there isn't partly a link between the four-stress trochaic
> octosyllabic and the old pure-stress line?<
>
> Naow, I don't think so, trochaic falling four beats are tighter than the
old
> line,
Yeah, you're right -- I was pushing too hard there. But there are cases
where you get an eight syllable line where it's difficult to decide whether
to read it as syllable-accent or stress metre.
I'm thinking of Yeats' "Easter 1916". And its children -- doesn't Seamus
Heaney pick up on the beat of this in a poem called "Four Men" (or
something?) and Auden -- is it "September 1939"?
Sorry, got the three poems somewhere in my head, but can't at the moment for
the life of me remember the exact titles.
> if you look at a lot of the middle period WS it is often really
> four primary stresses with a split falling in about the time value of the
> pause in the old line.
> I haven't done a systematic study on this so it is just a hunch.
Think I see where you're at here, dave. But isn't this close to where a
REALLY strong pause can count as a metrical beat? So you have a five-stress
pentameter by counting the STRONG (sic) pause (heavier than a caesura, in
this case).
> >I'd agree there is a pause in the line (and with your analysis of its
> effect -- well neat point about how the pause splits the foot) but is it
> strong enough to be labelled a caesura?
>
> Yup, because if you look at the preceding line it is without a medial
pause
> so the follower becomes the resting point.
Going to have to look up the whole poem.
Um ... Not a medial pause, but ...
Thou thy worldly task [slight pause] hast done
[Hey -- I was right on this -- 'Twas _Cymbeline_.]
Robin
from Cymbeline
Fear no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
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