Monday 1 October 2007

Elegy

NO spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face ;
Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape ;
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape.
If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame ;
Affections here take reverence's name.
Were her first years the Golden Age ? that's true,
But now they're gold oft tried, and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time ;
This is her tolerable tropic clime.
Fair eyes ; who asks more heat than comes from hence,
He in a fever wishes pestilence.
Call not these wrinkles, graves ; if graves they were,
They were Love's graves, for else he is nowhere.
Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit,
Vow'd to this trench, like an anachorite,
And here, till hers, which must be his death, come,
He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.
Here dwells he ; though he sojourn everywhere,
In progress, yet his standing house is here ;
Here, where still evening is, not noon, nor night ;
Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight.
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
You may at revels, you at council, sit.
This is love's timber ; youth his underwood ;
There he, as wine in June, enrages blood ;
Which then comes seasonablest, when our taste
And appetite to other things is past.
Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the platane tree,
Was loved for age, none being so large as she ;
Or else because, being young, nature did bless
Her youth with age's glory, barrenness.
If we love things long sought, age is a thing
Which we are fifty years in compassing ;
If transitory things, which soon decay,
Age must be loveliest at the latest day.
But name not winter faces, whose skin's slack,
Lank as an unthrift's purse, but a soul's sack ;
Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade ;
Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out, than made ;
Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,
To vex their souls at resurrection ;
Name not these living death-heads unto me,
For these, not ancient, but antique be.
I hate extremes ; yet I had rather stay
With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.
Since such love's motion natural is, may still
My love descend, and journey down the hill,
Not panting after growing beauties ; so
I shall ebb out with them who homeward go.

3 comments:

Sackerson said...

Yes, it's clear he actually loved women.

Anonymous said...

Beloved Autumn. My favourite place to experience autumn's full glory is Westonbirt Cathedral (aka Arboretum, and more precisely, the woods nearby which date back in parts to the 13th century).

Until meeting Lilith, and indeed, even after meeting Lilith, my life was one of total chaos; my alcoholic mum in Cheshire had major strokes in 2001 and 3, the aftermaths of which I had to deal with - care, support, and after the 2nd, a nursing home. At the same time my relationship with my ex (now much better than in a long time!) was going down the pan, and my job - more precisely my nasty little midget accountant boss - was driving me nuts.

My sanctuary was to head off for Westonbirt and spend the day walking the woods. You can do that and hardly - apart from the main rides - see the same tree or path twice all day.

It's a dog's paradise; they are not allowed in the Arboretum, but any day will see dogs and walkers, the weekends, small tribes of mums, dads, kids and dogs looping through the woods. I seem to be someone who dogs like, and have had temporary strays accompany me for a while till a whistle or a call calls them away again.

We can't wait to walk Pig there.

It's a place of huge solace for me - that's why I call it Westonbirt Cathedral. And the maples, in both the Arbo and the woods, are beyond belief (as are the early spring Magnolias, the Spregerii being up to 60 feet tall, and covered with huge pink bowls of flowers. Glorious.

Thanks for the Donne. Rave on John Donne :-)

hatfield girl said...

No point saying a poet's name and not seizing the chance to hear the voice.

And such a voice!