March flew by Postless. It was a better month than February in terms of General Developments, which is probably why it was so silent. Also, I'm writing a novel and holding down a job and going to nursing school. I think that calls for a little lenience. (Besides, I can't really talk much about work or school, and I feel a little awkward continually coughing up facts about Novelyness. Perhaps that's silly and self-conscious of me, but there you go.)
Apparently today is Poetry Day. Well, not officially so, but Abigail posted one of her favorite poems today, so if I throw my oar in the trend seems to be looking that way. It's a good way for me to make a much-needed post without having to sit down and decide what to write, anyway. Behold my mad cop-out skills.
By way of explanation, I am not really a poetry-person myself - that is to say, I don't usually sit down of my own volition and devour works of poetry. But there are always exceptions - the Greeks, T.S. Eliot, Donne, Beowulf... It was a toss-up between these and something from Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats. These are just a few of John Donne's Holy Sonnets, which I was brought to love by the collective efforts of Elevyn and my mother. The quote in the title is Emily Dickinson.
I.
Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste ;
I run to death, and Death meets me as fast,
And all my pleasures are like yesterday.
I dare not move my dim eyes any way ;
Despair behind, and Death before doth cast
Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste
By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh.
Only Thou art above, and when towards Thee
By Thy leave I can look, I rise again ;
But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,
That not one hour myself I can sustain.
Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art
And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.
V.
Of elements, and an angelic sprite ;
But black sin hath betray'd to endless night
My world's both parts, and, O, both parts must die.
You which beyond that heaven which was most high
Have found new spheres, and of new land can write,
Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might
Drown my world with my weeping earnestly,
Or wash it if it must be drown'd no more.
But O, it must be burnt ; alas ! the fire
Of lust and envy burnt it heretofore,
And made it fouler ; let their flames retire,
And burn me, O Lord, with a fiery zeal
Of Thee and Thy house, which doth in eating heal.
X.
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt 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.
XIV.
As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend ;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy ;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
These poems always give me chills. Thanks for posting them!