Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the devil's foot, Teach me to hear mermaids' singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible go see, Ride ten tousand days and nights, Till Age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return's, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair. If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet, Yet do not; I would not go, Though at next door we might meet. Thoush she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three.
- John Donne
The linnet in the rocky dells, The moor-lark in the air, The bee among the heather bells That hide my lady fair: The wild deer browse above her breast; The wild birds raise their brood; And they, her smiles of love caressed, Have left her solitude! I ween, that when the grave's dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne'er recall The light of joy again. They thought the tide of grief would flow Unchecked through future years; But where is all their anguish now, And where are all their tears? Well, let them fight for honour's breath, Or pleasure's shade pursue-- The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too. And, if their eyes should watch and weep Till sorrow's source were dry, She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Return a single sigh! Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound, And murmur, summer-streams-- There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dreams.
The wild deer browse above her breast; The wild birds raise their brood; And they, her smiles of love caressed, Have left her solitude!
I ween, that when the grave's dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne'er recall The light of joy again.
They thought the tide of grief would flow Unchecked through future years; But where is all their anguish now, And where are all their tears?
Well, let them fight for honour's breath, Or pleasure's shade pursue-- The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too.
And, if their eyes should watch and weep Till sorrow's source were dry, She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Return a single sigh!
Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound, And murmur, summer-streams-- There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dreams.
Soul's joy , now I am gone, And you alone, --Which cannot be, since I must leave myself with thee, and carry thee with me-- Yet when unto our eyes Absence denies Each other's sight, And makes to us a constant night, When others change to light; O give no way to grief, But let belief Of mutual love This wonder to the vulgar prove, Our bodies, not we move.
Let not thy wit beweep Words but sense deep; For when we miss By distance our hope's joining bliss, Even then our souls shall kiss; Fools have no means to meet, But by their feet; Why should our clay Over our spirits so much sway, To tie us to that way? O give no way to grief, &c.
Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me; But since that I At the last must part, 'tis best, Thus to use myself in jest By feigned deaths to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence, And yet is here to-day; He hath no desire nor sense, Nor hald so short a way; Then fear not me, But believe that I shall make Speedier journeys, since I take More wings and spurs than he.
O how feeble is man's power, That if good fortune fall, Cannot add another hour, Nor a lost hour recall; But come bad chance, And we join to it our strength, And we teach it art and length, Itself o'er us to advance.
When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind, But sigh'st my soul away; When thou weep'st, unkindly kind, My life's blood doth decay. It cannot be That thou lovest me as thou say'st, If in thine my life thou waste, That art the best of me.
Let not thy divining heart Forethink me any ill; Destiny may take thy part, And may thy fears fulful. But think that we Are but turn'd aside to sleep. They who one another keep Alive, ne'er parted be.
(Back to Easter Egg Poems)
To the old, long life and treasure; To the young, all health and pleasure; To the fair, their face With eternal grace, And the soul to be loved at leisure. To the witty, all clear mirrors; To the foolish, their dark errors; To the loving sprite, A secure delight, To the jealous, his own false terrors.
Ben Jonson
CST approved
God give you pardon from gratitude and other mild forms of servitude
and make peace for all of us with what is easy.
—Robert Creeley
Addendum (April 9, 2001) Ok, fine, I admit it! Creeley's written a lot more poems with this title! Here's another:
How simply
Sing pleasure,
How peace, how happiness,
—from Words, section II, in The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley
and another:
I wouldn't embarrass you ever.
If there were not place or time for it,
I would go, go elsewhere, remembering.
I would sit in a flower, a face, not
to embarrass you, would be unhappy
quietly, would never make a noise.
Simpler, simpler you deal with me.
—Ibid.
and another (November 25, 2001), not from the Collected Poems this time but the back of a recently rediscovered old notebook in which I'd collected a few assorted Creeleys from other sources:
Love has no other friends than those given it, as us, in confusion of trust and dependance.
We want the world a wonder and wait for it to become one
I wonder where they'll all find room to honor love in their own turn before they must move on.
It's said the night comes and ends all dillusions and dreams, in despite of our present sleeping.
But here I lie with you and want for nothing more than time in which to -----
till love itself dies with me at last the end I thought to see of everything that can be.
No! All vanity, all mind flies but love remains, nor dies even without me. Never dies.
I
In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity : The north cannot undo them, With a sleety whistle through them ; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime.
II
In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look ; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting Never, never petting About the frozen time.
III
Ah ! Would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy ! But were there ever any Writh'd not at passed joy ? To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steel it, Was never said in rhyme.
Yet another poem entitled 'Song' by another great poet
MY silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By love are driven away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.
His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold; O, why to him was't given Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is love's all-worshipped tomb, Where all love's pilgrims come.
Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made, Let winds and tempest beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay. True love doth pass away!
- William Blake
This poem is public domain. My source (theotherpages.org/poems) had the fourth-to-last line reading "When I my grade have made," but I changed this to "grave" as I belive the source has made a typo.
This poem, for all its use of an ending exclamation mark, is not a happy poem or startling. This incongruency, the ending, perhaps makes the topic (dead love) more powerful as with a simple statement, the rest of the poem needs to be re-considered. What is Blake trying to say? Is the middle stanza about Blake himself? Or is it a lover? Or is it, indeed, his lover?
The first lines of the poem are also a curiosity. "MY silks and fine array,/My smiles and languished air,/By love are driven away" - what is the meaning of this? In a way, these lines are ambiguous, as we do not know if these "good things in life" are driven away by the presence of the lover of the "wintry cold" heart, or by their lack of presence. And is the person's death because they miss the person, or for another reason? I do not believe that this poem is particularly well-explained by the poet to the reader, yet even so, it works. I think it may be safely assumed that the death is that of a true love, even though several lines call this belief into question. But for those who have ever loved, and lost, they can easily identify with the emotions flowing through Song. The numbness of a dead love, be it physically or emotionally.
Song
I saw thee on thy bridal day- When a burning blush came o'er thee, Though happiness around thee lay, The world all love before thee:
And in thine eye a kindling light (Whatever it might be) Was all on Earth my aching sight Of Loveliness could see.
That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame- As such it well may pass- Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame In the breast of him, alas!
Who saw thee on that bridal day, When that deep blush would come o'er thee, Though happiness around thee lay; The world all love before thee.
On a lighter note, let me present a rendition of this poem - as haiku:
You love your husband. He loves you deeply as well. It sucks to be me.
This CST Approved writeup brought to you with the help of the CST Referral Service.
A poem by the Earl of Rochester.
First published in 1676 in A New Collection of the Choicest Songs, its composition date is unknown.
While on those lovely looks I gaze To see a wretch pursuing, In raptures of a blest amaze, His pleasing, happy ruin, 'Tis not for pity that I move: His fate is too aspiring Whose heart, broke with a load of love, Dies wishing and admiring.
But if this murder you'd forgo, Your slave from death removing, Let me your art of charming know, Or learn you mine of loving. But whether life or death betide, In love 'this equal measure: The victor lives with empty pride, The vanquished die with pleasure.
An example of Wilmot's more chaste verses, another would be this untitled poem.
Like the poem referenced above, this deals with courting and love but unlike that one, it does not specify or even care whether it is requited or not. It discusses the pleasures of courting as regards some possibly doomed rake or rogue and suggests that unrequited love need not be a matter for angst but can be a beautiful thing in it's own way, in this sense it expresses an ideal of "Better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all".Whilst I might not entirely agree with that sentiment, I do certainly agree that there is a je ne sais quoi to the start of a romance when one is still unsure if the feelings are returned and you wonder at the possibilities, the love can not be unrequited at this time because it is still only anticipated.The observer/narrator in the poem seems to feel that love is a glorious state to be in and that one is always as much in love with love itself as with the object of one's desire. In this sense, the wretch so doomed is to be envied for his fleeting pleasure, not pitied for his uncertain fate.
There are many poems of the era titled simply 'Song' and it seems to indicate that a poem is of an obvious nature. Possibly better than thinking up some less than relevant title which would only mislead people anyway.
A song consists of two main components: a lyric and a piece of music. To understand a song, let's look at its two components in turn.
A lyric is a passage of text containing far less words than a short story or
