ChatterBank2 mins ago
Lovely poem
36 Answers
My 82 year old uncle loves poetry and told me about a poem that he had loved for years but didn't remember it all and couldn't remember the name. He only remembered a few lines.
However a quick google of a couple of the lines that he remembered revealed that it was this:
Lord Byron
CLXIX. All for Love
O TALK not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 5
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary—
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
O Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 10
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 15
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
How fantastic is that?!
His eyes teared as I read it to him.
Is this not the best instance of when the internet is useful and fantastic?
However a quick google of a couple of the lines that he remembered revealed that it was this:
Lord Byron
CLXIX. All for Love
O TALK not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 5
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary—
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
O Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 10
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 15
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
How fantastic is that?!
His eyes teared as I read it to him.
Is this not the best instance of when the internet is useful and fantastic?
Answers
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THE DEFINITION OF LOVE.
by Andrew Marvell
I.
MY Love is of a birth as rare
As 'tis, for object, strange and high ;
It was begotten by Despair,
Upon Impossibility.
II.
Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing,
Where feeble hope could ne'er have flown,
But vainly flapped its tinsel wing.
III.
And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended soul is fixed ;
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.
IV.
For Fate with jealous eye does see
Two perfect loves, nor lets them close ;
Their union would her ruin be,
And her tyrannic power depose.
V.
And therefore her decrees of steel
Us as the distant poles have placed,
(Though Love's whole world on us doth wheel),
Not by themselves to be embraced,
VI.
Unless the giddy heaven fall,
And earth some new convulsion tear.
And, us to join, the world should all
Be cramp'd into a planisphere.
VII.
As lines, so love's oblique, may well
Themselves in every angle greet :
But ours, so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
VIII.
Therefore the love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,
And opposition of the stars.
The Poems of Andrew Marvell.
to Andrew Marvell
by Andrew Marvell
I.
MY Love is of a birth as rare
As 'tis, for object, strange and high ;
It was begotten by Despair,
Upon Impossibility.
II.
Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing,
Where feeble hope could ne'er have flown,
But vainly flapped its tinsel wing.
III.
And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended soul is fixed ;
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.
IV.
For Fate with jealous eye does see
Two perfect loves, nor lets them close ;
Their union would her ruin be,
And her tyrannic power depose.
V.
And therefore her decrees of steel
Us as the distant poles have placed,
(Though Love's whole world on us doth wheel),
Not by themselves to be embraced,
VI.
Unless the giddy heaven fall,
And earth some new convulsion tear.
And, us to join, the world should all
Be cramp'd into a planisphere.
VII.
As lines, so love's oblique, may well
Themselves in every angle greet :
But ours, so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
VIII.
Therefore the love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,
And opposition of the stars.
The Poems of Andrew Marvell.
to Andrew Marvell
Another Yeats:
Sweetheart, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.
But O, in a minute she changed--
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.
Sweetheart, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.
But O, in a minute she changed--
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.
The More Loving One
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
-- W H Auden
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
-- W H Auden
You might like this one Sandy . . . !
The Ballad of William Bloat (by Raymond Calvert)
In a mean abode on the Shankill Road
Lived a man named William Bloat;
He had a wife, the bane of his life,
Who always "got his goat."
So one day at dawn, with her nightdress on—
He cut her bloody throat.
With a razor-gash, he settled her hash,
O, never was crime so quick;
But the steady drip, on the pillow-slip,
Of her life-blood made him sick,
And the pool of gore, on the bedroom floor,
Grew clotted, cold, and thick.
And yet—he was glad that he'd done what he had,
When she lay there stiff and still;
But a sudden awe of the angry law
Struck his soul heart with an icy chill.
So, to finish the fun so well begun,
He resolved decided himself to kill.
He took the sheet off his wife's cold feet,
And twisted it into a rope,
And he hanged himself from the pantry shelf—
T'was an easy end, let's hope —
In the face of death, with his latest breath,
He solemnly cursed the Pope!
But the strangest turn to the whole concern
Is only just beginnin'! —
He went to Hell, but his wife got well,
And she's still alive and sinnin' —
For the razor blade was foreign made,
But the sheet was—Irish linen!
The Ballad of William Bloat (by Raymond Calvert)
In a mean abode on the Shankill Road
Lived a man named William Bloat;
He had a wife, the bane of his life,
Who always "got his goat."
So one day at dawn, with her nightdress on—
He cut her bloody throat.
With a razor-gash, he settled her hash,
O, never was crime so quick;
But the steady drip, on the pillow-slip,
Of her life-blood made him sick,
And the pool of gore, on the bedroom floor,
Grew clotted, cold, and thick.
And yet—he was glad that he'd done what he had,
When she lay there stiff and still;
But a sudden awe of the angry law
Struck his soul heart with an icy chill.
So, to finish the fun so well begun,
He resolved decided himself to kill.
He took the sheet off his wife's cold feet,
And twisted it into a rope,
And he hanged himself from the pantry shelf—
T'was an easy end, let's hope —
In the face of death, with his latest breath,
He solemnly cursed the Pope!
But the strangest turn to the whole concern
Is only just beginnin'! —
He went to Hell, but his wife got well,
And she's still alive and sinnin' —
For the razor blade was foreign made,
But the sheet was—Irish linen!
Some Rudyard perhaps - oir is that a tad too Victorian:
When Earth's Last Picture Is Painted
1892 - L'Envoi To "The Seven Seas"
When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it -- lie down for an aeon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew.
And those that were good shall be happy; they shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets' hair.
They shall find real saints to draw from -- Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!
And only The Master shall praise us, and only The Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They are!
~Kipling
When Earth's Last Picture Is Painted
1892 - L'Envoi To "The Seven Seas"
When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it -- lie down for an aeon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew.
And those that were good shall be happy; they shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets' hair.
They shall find real saints to draw from -- Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!
And only The Master shall praise us, and only The Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They are!
~Kipling
Eden Rock - Charles Causley
They are waiting for me somewhere beyond Eden Rock:
My Father, twenty five, in the same suit
Of Genuine Irish Tweed, his terrier Jack
Stiill two years old and trembling at his feet.
My Mother, twenty three, in a sprigged dress
Drawn at the waist, ribbon in her straw hat.
Has spread the stiff white cloth over the grass.
Her hair, the colour of wheat, takes on the light.
She pours tea from a Thermos, the milk straight
From an old HP sauce botle, a screw
Of paper for a cork, slowly sets out
The same three plates, the tin cups painted blue.
The sky whitens as if lit by three suns.
My Mother shades her eyes and looks my way
Over the drifted stream. My Father spins
A stone along the water. Leisurely.
They beckon to me from the other bank.
I hear them call, "See where the stream path is!
Crossing is not as hard as you might think."
I had not thought that it would be like this.
They are waiting for me somewhere beyond Eden Rock:
My Father, twenty five, in the same suit
Of Genuine Irish Tweed, his terrier Jack
Stiill two years old and trembling at his feet.
My Mother, twenty three, in a sprigged dress
Drawn at the waist, ribbon in her straw hat.
Has spread the stiff white cloth over the grass.
Her hair, the colour of wheat, takes on the light.
She pours tea from a Thermos, the milk straight
From an old HP sauce botle, a screw
Of paper for a cork, slowly sets out
The same three plates, the tin cups painted blue.
The sky whitens as if lit by three suns.
My Mother shades her eyes and looks my way
Over the drifted stream. My Father spins
A stone along the water. Leisurely.
They beckon to me from the other bank.
I hear them call, "See where the stream path is!
Crossing is not as hard as you might think."
I had not thought that it would be like this.
I received this on a Valentine card 35 years ago, so special.
To His Coy Mistress
by Andrew Marvell
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast;
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart;
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turns to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
To His Coy Mistress
by Andrew Marvell
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast;
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart;
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turns to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
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