Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good. ---W.H.Auden
Time for Love.
I think I should have loved you presently, And given in earnest words I flung in jest; And lifted honest eyes for you to see, And caught your hand against my cheek and breast; And all my pretty follies flung aside That won you to me, and beneath your gaze, Naked of reticence and shorn of pride, Spread like a chart my little wicked ways. I, that had been to you, had you remained, But one more waking frorn a recurrent dream, Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained, And walk your memory's halls, austere, supreme, A ghost in marble of a girl you knew Who would have loved you in a day or two. --Edna St. Vincent Milay
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As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls, to go, Whilst some of their sad friends do say, "The breath goes now," and some say, "No:"
So let us melt, and make no noise, No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; 'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears; Men reckon what it did, and meant; But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refin'd, That ourselves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind, Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two; Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if the' other do.
And though it in the centre sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans, and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must Like th' other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end, where I begun.
I find John Donne neat.
Death:
Yeats - Sailing to Byzantium
That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees - Those dying generations - at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
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I like 'Valediction' because the compass is such an odd metaphor, but it works perfectly for the sentiments of the poem. It's a beautiful construction.
Yeats always makes me think of autumn.
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I like the compass metaphor. It's like what we called in high school the satellite phenomonon - no grand love, but whoever we were having a crush on, we lived our separate lives in an orbit.
Is there any reason that Yeats invokes autumn for you? For me, Yeats makes me think of old men in the sun dreaming wistfully of fairies. Kind of a combination of the desert in The Second Coming and the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
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Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For those who thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then, much more from thee must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally And death shall be no more, death thou shalt die.
Donne is so deliciously unsure of his words. You can hear him convincing himself, not death. Beautiful poem.
I'll have to find a love poem later. Posts: 1903 | Registered: Sep 2003
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Think of what you have to say, Dare not tell us a lie; For with us you cannot play, Game not – lest you will die.
We were, are and will be the Mob, You are of victims one; If you’re not truthful you will sob: With us you won’t be done.
You know what runs the show is cash, So money here will do; If you won’t pay then you we’ll thrash And kill you though and through.
So pay us and be silent now Or pay it (face your death); You’re a pig, your spouse a sow, We own you and your breath.
(Not quite "love" and death, but it's about the Mob's death-threats.)
Jonathan Howard's Sonnet On Parting:
A parting will be painful, this I know, And even if it’s just for the time being – I know that one can’t stand there sadly seeing A leaving friend when motion seems all slow; So if I look I’ll see somewhere a crow Implying omens bad, them guaranteeing: You’re off to other lands and there sightseeing, Forgetting friends – thus sorrow you bestow. But please, just tell me you’ll remember us, The ones who gave you memories of times – Both good and bad; and to conclude, I thus: Plea that you’ll remember these few rhymes; Remember all we’ve done back in the past, And cherish friendships that we had to last.
(Which is about the possible death of a relationship.)
Just so you know some more of my stuff.
(C) 2004-2005 Jonathan Howard. All rights reserved.Posts: 2978 | Registered: Oct 2004
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quote:Is there any reason that Yeats invokes autumn for you? For me, Yeats makes me think of old men in the sun dreaming wistfully of fairies. Kind of a combination of the desert in The Second Coming and the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Hmmm. I think it's the same sense of age and wistfulness. His stuff feels ancient to me; there's a deep history behind every scene he sets, and things always seem to be drifting slowly toward endings. I like the reference to old men you made because there's often a sense of quiet, too - the quiet of age rather than tranquility, though. And that's autumn; closure and the oncoming night. Of course, the Second Coming is the exception to all of this; there things are winding tighter and tighter towards rupture, but the poem has the same sense of history.
Way to write a sonnet, Jonathan. I'm not disciplined enough. They're tough.
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quote: Is there any reason that Yeats invokes autumn for you? For me, Yeats makes me think of old men in the sun dreaming wistfully of fairies.
Yeats makes me think of such a great difference between "k" and "y". Seriously, though, he makes me think of terrible beauties being born, and 16 dead people.
*Listens to "The Foggy Dew".*
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Thanks! Isn't it overly-Yodaed? This, though, doesn't even get NEAR a Miltonian one. Not that his technique is necessarily better, or that he's more accurate - but he's so much deeper and more emotional. I know I'll never be a Milton... I looked at his writings when he was my age...
Yeah, well, Milton...
quote: They're tough.
English is a joke-language in sonnets compared to Hebrew. It's a shame Milton wrote nothing in it, even though he spoke it. He wrote Greek.
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