just ignore me Jackyyyy, I have had about two hours sleep in well actually I cannot remember. baby Hasia is going thru the 'there is a monster in the bedroom" thing now and I am up constantly comforting her. forgive me . sigh....
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just ignore me Jackyyyy, I have had about two hours sleep in well actually I cannot remember. baby Hasia is going thru the 'there is a monster in the bedroom" thing now and I am up constantly comforting her. forgive me . sigh....
I agree. It's a beautiful poem--a moment of peace and clarity. Thanks Melanie. Looking forward to your pick next week Jackyyyy.Quote:
Originally Posted by jackyyyy
I am away this week. :wave: Why not take a turn Patrarch, May 1st.
Jackyyyy--Oh, I lost track of what you were referring to and when you said you were going to "go" next week I thought you meant you were going to have a go selecting a poem. :lol: Have a great trip, wherever you're going. :wave: Hmmm...I'll have to go think about what poem to post, that is unless anyone else is just dying to put one up.
How about something from Milton, Petrarch? I don't know if "Lycidas" is too long. Just a suggestion. Whatever your heart desires.Quote:
Originally Posted by Petrarch's Love
Petratch, Virgil is right, Milton will be a good choice....I think that Robert Frost might be a good candidate as well.
Wow, you read my mind Virg. I was just looking at Lycidas. I've broken it into four parts with spaces that aren't in the original poem, to suggest some more easily digested segments for discussion. At least we won't run out of material to discuss. :lol:
In this monody the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drowned in
his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637; and by occasion foretells
the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their height.
[1] Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
[10] Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew .
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his wat'ry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
So may some gentle Muse
[20] With lucky words favour my destined urn,
And as he passes turn
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill,
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared
Under the opening eyelids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
[30] Oft till the star that rose, at ev'ning, bright
Toward heav'n's descent had sloped his west'ring wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Tempered to th' oaten flute;
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long;
And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
But O! the heavy change now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone and never must return!
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves,
[40] With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes mourn.
The willows, and the hazel copses green,
Shall now no more be seen
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flow'rs, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the white-thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.
[50] Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.
Ay me, I fondly dream!
Had ye been there, for what could that have done?
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself for her enchanting son,
[60] Whom universal nature did lament,
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Alas! what boots it with uncessant care
To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
[70] Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble mind)
To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise,"
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears:
"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glist'ring foil
[80] Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heav'n expect thy meed."
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood;
But now my oat proceeds,
And listens to the herald of the sea
[90] That came in Neptune's plea.
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?
And questioned every gust of rugged wings
That blows from off each beaked promontory:
They knew not of his story,
And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed;
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.
[100] It was that fatal and perfidious bark,
Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.
"Ah! Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?"
Last came, and last did go,
The Pilot of the Galilean lake.
[110] Two massy keys he bore of metals twain,
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain)
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake
"How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!
Of other care they little reckoning make
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest.
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
[120] A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But swoll'n with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing said;
[130] But that two-handed engine at the door
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more."
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
Their bells and flow'rets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,
[140] That on the green turf suck the honeyed show'rs,
And purple all the ground with vernal flow'rs.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears.
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
[150] And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
For so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
[160] Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold.
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth;
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor.
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
[170] And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
[180] That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals grey;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
[190] And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropped into the western bay.
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:
Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
Wow, great choice. I am in Chester, I'll be sure to wave this poem at some clergy while away, thanks! :banana:Quote:
In this monody the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637; and by occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their height.
You know a couple of weeks back I mentioned I think three poets who I considered top tier in poetic skill. I forgot to mention Milton. He truely is a great artificer of the english language, despite what T.S. Eliot says about him. It was either last year or the year before (at my age the years are becoming a blur) I read the entire Paradise Lost from start to finish, which I had never had to do. In school they just asigned sections to read, and usually the satan passages. So after reading the entire thing, every line, I was enthralled with Milton. I was completely in love with his voice. Shakespeare may be a slightly better poet, beng able to whip images and metaphors like breathing. But nobody, and I mean nobody, has the grand, epic, powerful voice of Milton. It truly is an adjective in itself, "Miltonic." "Lycidas" is an early work, and I think there are some rough spots in there, but those opening lines certainly foreshadow Milton's epic lines of Paradise Lost.
Quote:
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his wat'ry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Virgil--I agree that there's nothing quite like Milton. The first time I read Paradise Lost I was an undergrad sitting around in the student lounge bored and I picked up an old battered copy of PL and started reading. I've seldom been so forcefully struck by an author's voice. The lines were so powerfully different from anything I'd read before, and so alluring that I couldn't put it down. I spent the rest of the afternoon transfixed until they kicked me out of the student lounge at closing and I ran right out to the bookstore to buy my own copy. :lol:Quote:
Originally Posted by Virgil
Last year I took a course in which we read all of Milton's poetic works in chronological order (as well as the more interesting bits of prose). Lycidas struck me as one of the first places where, as you say, the voice we hear later in PL really starts to emerge. I've always found the church criticism in the middle a bit out of place (though others disagree with me) and some of the lines are less than perfect, but over all it's a beautifully written poem. There's so much more going on than you would ever catch in one reading. My favorite lines are those at the end:
I always feel there's something unexpected unfolding in these final lines. It may be because of the realization that the whole poem is actually being song by the shepherd, meaning that we're only getting to the actual story framing this poem when we reach the very end; and of course that final line is just perfect. I wonder what people make of the different voices in this poem: Lycidas, Milton himself, the muses, the shepheard singing at the end. There are so many different voices in this poem, but yet at any given moment it feels as though there is only one narrator, perhaps because the first person voice of the opening lines seems to announce himself so forcefully that there really doesn't seem to be any question of authority.Quote:
Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals grey;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropped into the western bay.
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:
Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
I also love his use of short lines in this poem. It's fairly unusual for Milton to have varied line length, but he uses them like an expert musician in this poem. There are fewer and fewer abbreviated lines as the poem progresses until the end section--somewhere around the point where the shepheards are told to weep no more and onward--has only full lines appropriate to resurrection and continuing life. Some of my favorite abbreviated lines earlier in the poem are these:
It's just a perfect poetic "turn." The two shortened lines surround the mention of Milton's death, while the full lines describe the words and actions of the muse who will grant him life in poetry even after death. The line "as he passes turn" is so rich with word play. The future "muse" or poet literally passes Milton's grave in walking by it, but at the same time it is implied that this future poet is also passing, as in passing through this life, or passing away. He literally turns to recite a benediction on the dead poet, but also turns in the sense of poetic turn, or writing poetry. One poet passes the muse to another who then takes his turn even as he himself passes swiftly out of this life. It's a beautiful evocation of the continuance of life and of poetry and of life through poetry.Quote:
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destined urn,
And as he passes turn
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
Anyway, I suppose I've rambled enough for the moment (does it show that I love this poem? :D ). I'll let others get some thoughts or questions or comments out there.
One question of my own--I wondered what season of the year people imagined the opening lines were describing? I thought it was really obviously a certain time of year but I recently had a debate with a professor of mine who was equally certain it was a completely different season. I'm curious as to whether more people agree with me or with him. :D
I would say late autumn (or possibly winter), seeing as the laurel has berries and he mentions that the myrtle (like ivy) doesn't wither like other plants.
He also mentions a 'mellowing' year - ie. aging - again leading me to late autumn / early winter.
With regard to the lines you quote - about the urn - I take it to mean that Milton is hoping that some future poet will sing his praises in the way that he himself is praising 'Lycidas' - forgive me if that is what you meant.
Has anyone any information on the mythological persons used in the poem? I think many of them come from Virgil's eclogues, but I'm unsure. Seeing as we have Virgil with us here, perhaps he can shed some light? It's hard to make out the allusions otherwise.
Some kind of a Dramatis Personae would be useful.
yes, 'the berries' and 'Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year' makes me think of Oct/Nov, but 'ivy, sere, and O laurels' reminds me of December. I have not digested it all.
Yes, my apologies, I realize I didn't really state the primary meaning of the lines in my comments. Just as you say, the meaning of the lines is that Milton imagines some future poet praising him in a poem just as he is now praising Lycidas, and that's what I was referring to when I said they describe a continuance of life and of poetry--one poet (the future muse) continuing where another has left off by eulogizing that previous poet (Milton) . I was taking the meaning for granted and examining the way in which he's getting that meaning across because I've always found his diction here very rich. The "turn" make it clear that he's talking about poetic composition that will immortalize him one day, and I love the way his choice of the word "passes" not only describes a poet in the future, but describes him doing something in the present tense with an implication of this future poet one day himself becoming past. It's a really wonderfully compact way of putting across a whole cycle of events repeating themselves throughout time as each succeeding poet pays homage to the last and hopes to be immortalized himself.Quote:
With regard to the lines you quote - about the urn - I take it to mean that Milton is hoping that some future poet will sing his praises in the way that he himself is praising 'Lycidas' - forgive me if that is what you meant.