Hexameters

Italic sentences below are Samuel Taylor Coleridge's.


William, my teacher, my friend! dear William and dear Dorothea!
Smooth out the folds of my letter, and place it on desk or on table;
Place it on table or desk; and your right hands loosely half-closing,
Gently sustain them in air, and extending the digit didactic,
Rest it a moment on each of the forks of the five-forkéd left hand,
Twice on the breadth of the thumb, and once on the tip of each finger;
Read with a nod of the head in a humouring recitativo;
And, as I live, you will see my hexameters hopping before you.
This is a galloping measure; a hop, and a trot, and a gallop!

        All my hexameters fly, like stags pursued by the staghounds,
        Breathless and panting, and ready to drop, yet flying still onwards,
        I would full fain pull in my hard-mouthed runaway hunter;
        But our English Spondeans are clumsy yet impotent curb-reins;
        And so to make him go slowly, no way left have I but to lame him.

        William, my head and my heart! dear Poet that feelest and thinkest!
        Dorothy, eager of soul, my most affectionate sister!
        Many a mile, O! many a wearisome mile are ye distant,
        Long, long, comfortless roads, with no one eye that doth know us.
        O! it is all too far to send to you mockeries idle:
        Yea, and I feel it not right! But O! my friends, my belovéd!
        Feverish and wakeful I lie, I am weary of feeling and thinking.
        Every thought is worn down, I am weary, yet cannot be vacant.
        Five long hours have I tossed, rheumatic heats, dry and flushing,
        Gnawing behind in my head, and wandering and throbbing about me,
        Busy and tiresome, my friends, as the beat of the boding night-spider.

        I forget the beginning of the line:
                            ... my eyes are a burthen,
Now unwillingly closed, now open and aching with darkness.
O! what a life is the eye! what a strange and inscrutable essence!
Him that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that warms him;
Him that never beheld the swelling breast of his mother;
Him that smiled in his gladness as a babe that smiles in its slumber;
Even for him it exists, it moves and stirs in its prison;
Lives with a separate life, and `Is it a Spirit?' he murmurs:
`Sure, it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only a language.'

        There was a great deal more, which I have forgotten. ... The last line which I wrote, I remember, and write it for the truth of the sentiment, scarcely less true in company than in pain and solitude:

        William, my head and my heart! dear William and dear Dorothea!
        You have all in each other; but I am lonely, and want you!