Murder in the Cathedral.

[Shakira]

Can we please have the e text of Murder in the Cathedral by T.S. Eliot??? I don't seem to find the book anywhere. :bawling:

[Logos]

It was published post-1923 (1935) so not in the public domain. You'd have to get it from a library or buy it from a bookstore.

edit: or there's always Google Books (http://www.google.ca/books?q=%22T.+S.+Eliot%22+murder&btnG=Search+Books&as_brr=0) :)

[Shakira]

Please help me out guys. I have to compose a poetry textbook for my M.A. second year. I have tried looking for the following poems online but I can't find them anywhere. If anyone of you knows where I can find the texts of these online or if anyone of you knows these poems & can type it out for me then I'll be highly grateful to you. The poems that I need are:

1. "Elegy on Mistress Boulstred" - John Donne
2. "Elegy on the L.C." - John Donne
3. "Elegy for Margaret VI" - Stephen Spender
4. "Epistle to Sir Edward Sackville" - Ben Jonson

Please help me folks.

[Shakira]

Please help me guys:( I need to compile the poems in the next week. Please help me out.:bawling:

[Logos]

1. Donne apparently wrote about "Cecilia Boulstred" (http://extra.shu.ac.uk/emls/01-3/rev_sum1.html) in "Language thou art too narrow":


Elegie: Death, By John Donne

Language thou art too narrow, and too weake
To ease us now; great sorrow cannot speake;
If we could sigh out accents, and weepe words,
Griefe weares, and lessens, that tears breath affords.
Sad hearts, the lesse they seeme the more they are,
(So guiltiest men stand mutest at the barre)
Not that they know not, feele not their estate,
But extreme sense hath made them desperate.
Sorrow, to whom we owe all that we bee;
Tyrant, in the fift and greatest Monarchy,
Was't, that she did possesse all hearts before,
Thou hast kil'd her, to make thy Empire more?
Knew'st thou some would, that knew her not, lament,
As in a deluge perish th'innocent?
Was't not enough to have that palace wonne,
But thou must raze it too, that was undone?
Had'st thou staid there, and look'd out at her eyes,
All had ador'd thee that now from thee flies,
For they let out more light, then they tooke in,
They told not when, but did the day beginne.
She was too Saphirine, and cleare for thee;
Clay, flint, and jeat now thy fit dwellings be;
Alas, shee was too pure, but not too weake;
Who e'r saw Christall Ordinance but would break?
And if wee be thy conquest, by her fall
Th'hast lost thy end, for in her perish all;
Or if we live, we live but to rebell,
They know her better now, that knew her well.
If we should vapour out, and pine, and die;
Since, shee first went, that were not miserie.
Shee chang'd our world with hers; now she is gone,
Mirth and prosperity is oppression;
For of all morall vertues she was all,
The Ethicks speake of vertues Cardinall.
Her soule was Paradise; the Cherubin
Set to keepe it was grace, that kept out sinne.
Shee had no more then let in death, for wee
All reape consumption from one fruitfull tree.
God tooke her hence, lest some of us should love
Her, like that plant, him and his lawes above,
And when wee teares, hee mercy shed in this,
To raise our mindes to heaven where now she is;
Who if her vertues would have let her stay
Wee'had had a Saint, have now a holiday.
Her heart was that strange bush, where, sacred fire,
Religion, did not consume, but'inspire
Such piety, so chast use of Gods day,
That what we turne to feast, she turn'd to pray,
And did prefigure here, in devout tast,
The rest of her high Sabaoth, which shall last.
Angels did hand her up, who next God dwell,
(For she was of that order whence most fell)
Her body left with us, lest some had said,
Shee could not die, except they saw her dead;
For from lesse vertue, and lesse beautiousnesse,
The Gentiles fram'd them Gods and Goddesses.
The ravenous earth that now wooes her to be
Earth too, will be a Lemnia; and the tree
That wraps that christall in a wooden Tombe,
Shall be tooke up spruce, fill'd with diamond;
And we her sad glad friends all beare a part
Of griefe, for all would waste a Stoicks heart.

.

2. I'm sorry I can't find it. He wrote many Elegies (http://www.online-literature.com/donne/), maybe if you browse them all you will find the right one about Lord Chamberlain.

.

3. Margaret was Spender's sister-in-law; he published his elegy for her in 1947 in his collection Poems of Dedication (1947);

Elegy for Margaret (http://books.guardian.co.uk/departments/poetry/story/0,,679504,00.html)


Poor girl, inhabitant of a strange land
Where death stares through your gaze,
As though a distant moon
Shone through midsummer days
With the skull-like glitter of night:
Poor child, you wear your
summer dress
And your shoes striped with gold
As the earth wears a variegated cover
Of grass and flowers
Covering caverns of destruction over
Where hollow deaths are told.
I look into your sunk eyes,
Shafts of wells to both our hearts,
Which cannot take part in the lies
Of acting these gay parts.
Under our lips, our minds
Become one with the weeping
Of the mortality
Which through sleep is unsleeping.
Of what use is my weeping?
It does not carry a
surgeon's knife
To cut the wrongly
multiplying cells
At the root of your life.
It can only prove
That extremes of love
Stretch beyond the flesh
to hideous bone
Howling in hyena dark alone.
Oh, but my grief is thought,
a dream,
Tomorrow's gale will
sweep away.
It does not wake every day
To the facts which are and
do not only seem:
The granite facts around
your bed,
Poverty-stricken hopeless
ugliness
Of the fact that you will soon
be dead.



.


4. Regarding "Epistle to Sir Edward Sackville" by Ben Jonson--it is possibly the following(?)

UND. 28. AN ODE (http://www.questia.com/googleScholar.qst;jsessionid=G71By882xLSF1tVvCqz2b D7DhHLjMy76ySxgQgVF0R9252MlWyQ4!-435531576?docId=95145957)

"Ian Donaldson, in his edition of the poems (London, 1975 ), suggests that the ode was addressed to Sir Edward Sackville after his defeat in a duel concerning Venetia Stanley...."




High spirited friend,
I send nor Balmes, nor Cor'sives to your wound:
Your fate hath found,
A gentler, and more agile hand, to tend
The Cure of that, which is but corporall,
And doubtfull Dayes (which were nam'd Criticall,)
Have made their fairest flight,
And now are out of sight.
Yet doth some wholsome Physick for the mind,
Wrapt in this paper lie,
Which in the taking if you mis-apply,
You are unkind.

Your covetous hand,
Happy in that faire honour it hath gain'd,
Must now be rayn'd.
True valour doth her owne renowne command
In one full Action; nor have you now more
To doe, then be a husband of that store.
Thinke but how deare you bought,
This same which you have caught,
Such thoughts wil make you more in love with Truth:
'Tis wisdome and that high,
For men to use their fortune reverently,
Even in youth.



.

.

[Shakira]

Ohh thanks a ton Logos :) Bless you.