Love (III) - George Herbert

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lack'd any thing.

A guest, I answer'd, worthy to be here:
Love said, you shall be he.
I, the unkind, the ungrateful? Ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?

Truth Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.










No matter how undeserving one feels, Love is present for us nonetheless.  That's the main crux of this poem, a dialogue between the unworthy feeling narrator and Love.  Herbert's narrator feels the "dust and sin" that is the human condition.  Regardless, Love ameliorates these fears, inviting the narrator in for all of his faults and loving him all the same.  It has a divine character, this Love, reinforced by the capitalization of the L throughout.

[It's no use / Mother dear] - Sappho

translated by Mary Barnard

It's no use

Mother dear, I
can't finish my
weaving
          You may
blame Aphordite

soft as she is

she has almost
killed me with
love for that boy










A simple dialogue between a girl and her mother.  The girl has to set her weaving aside, unfinished, because love burns too strongly within her.  She's unable to keep her mind upon any one task, for she is almost "killed" with love.  The way it's put is elegant in its simplicity and directness.  Sappho has understandably become a legendary figure, and sometimes the facts of her life are mixed with legend.  I'd encourage you to take in a brief biography here to get some better background than what I can provide.

[Deeply repentant of my sinful ways] - Gaspara Stampa

translated by Lorna De Lucchi

Deeply repentant of my sinful ways
And of my trivial, manifold desires,
Of squandering, alas, these few brief days
Of fugitive life in tending love's vain fires,
To Thee, Lord, Who dost move hard hearts again,
And render warmth unto the frozen snow,
And lighten every bitter load of pain
For those who with Thy sacred ardours glow,
   To Thee I turn, O stretch forth Thy right hand
And from this whirlpool rescue me, for I
Without Thine aid could never reach the land;
O willingly for us didst suffer loss,
And to redeem mankind hung on the Cross,
O gentle Saviour, leave me not to die.










Today, Gaspara Stampa is considered one of the greatest Renaissance poets, and in her own time, was often compared to Sappho for the lyrical nature of her work.  She died early, a mere 31, but left behind a large volume of poetry for us to enjoy and appreciate today.

This poem is a prayer more than anything.  Asking for forgiveness and mercy, Stampa recognizes herself as inadequate to rescue herself, knowing that power can only rest in a merciful God, who suffered on our behalf.  Obviously, this is a very religious poem, but I feel like its humility can be a lesson to us all regardless of religious beliefs.  Recognizing our own faults and admitting we need help is incredibly difficult to do.  I think praise is also due to the translator, who has done a wonderful job maintaining both rhyme and meter.

From a Railway Carriage - Robert Louis Stevenson

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with a man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone for ever!










Ever since their introduction, trains, and the unique rhythms and perspectives they provide have captivated poets.  Everything you can see out of a train window is a small scene, a small slice.  Those scenes fuel our imaginations, as this poem shows.  Every line we see here is a quick account of something seen for just a second.  The line that best sums it up is the final one: "Each a glimpse and gone for ever!"

I wrote a similar poem when I took a bus from Leeds to London, and was captivated by the countryside.  Though it didn't have the train's rhythm, I tried to replicate the way the countryside seems to blur together as you pass it at motorway speeds.  I hope it was effective! 

[Exultation is the Going] - Emily Dickinson

Exultation is the going
Of an inland soul to sea, -
Past the houses - past the headlands,
Into deep eternity -

Bred as we, among the mountains,
Can the sailor understand
The divine intoxication
Of the first league out from land?










The thrill of travel away from home, into unknown territory, is captured perfectly in this short poem by Emily Dickinson.  It's going sailing for the first time, this poem.

O What Is That Sound - W. H. Auden

O what is that sound which so thrills the ear

   Down in the valley drumming, drumming?

Only the scarlet soldiers, dear,

   The soldiers coming.

O what is the light I see flashing so clear

   Over the distance brightly, brightly?

Only the sun on their weapons, dear,

   As they step lightly.

O what are they doing with all that gear,

   What are they doing this morning, morning?

Only their usual manoeuvres, dear,

   Or perhaps a warning.

O why have they left the road down there,

   Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling?

Perhaps a change in their orders, dear,

   Why are you kneeling?

O haven't they stopped for the doctor's care,

   Haven't they reined their horses, horses?

Why, they are none of them wounded, dear,

   None of these forces.

O is it the parson they want, with white hair,

   Is it the parson, is it, is it?

No, they are passing his gateway, dear,

   Without a visit.

O it must be the farmer that lives so near.

   It must be the farmer so cunning, so cunning?

They have passed the farmyard already, dear,

   And now they are running.

O where are you going? Stay with me here!

   Were the vows you swore deceiving, deceiving?

No, I promised to love you, dear,

   But I must be leaving.

O it's broken the lock and splintered the door,

   O it's the game where they're turning, turning,

Their boots are heavy on the floor

   And their eyes are burning.

Written in ballad form, this Auden poem catches us readers up in its moment, as soldiers come for one or both of the narrators.  Presumably a husband and wife (or wife and husband, as I read it, respectively) are listening to the sounds of soldiers making their way into their town.  Throughout the poem, they try to rationalize their fear, to explain these movements and noises.  There is a bit of a spat between the two narrators, as one seeks to flee rather than support the other, despite their marriage vows.  Fear for self overrode those vows, it seems. 

The real strength of this poem is in its driving rhythm.  The ballad format of four strong beats per line is familiar to all, but the subject matter here is not the stuff of typical ballads.  Instead, we get a real-time narrative which ends with splintering wood and hateful eyed soldiers.  Even though we, the readers, hopefully will never be caught in a situation like this, we can relate to the way the narrator seeks to rationalize and explain all of the frightening things occurring, not realizing their inevitable outcome.  The poem is not hard to understand, really.  It's just remarkable that we can become caught up in the drama of it, as if it was unfolding before us in all its terrible, all too believable reality.  Even though soldiers today are unlikely to come charging up the lane on horseback, we see news clips from all over the world of this kind of fearful tragedy playing out in more modern terms.  

Sonnet 35: No More Be Grieved At That Which Thou Hast Done - William Shakespeare

No more be grieved at what thou hast done:

Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,

Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,

And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.

All men make faults, and even I in this,

Authórizing thy trespass with compare,

Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,

Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are:

For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense -

Thy adverse party is thy advocate -

And 'gainst myself in a lawful plea commence.

Such civil war is in my love and hate,

   That I an áccessory needs must be

   To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

Considering the breadth of topics and poets that this blog has covered, it is somewhat surprising that I've only engaged with Shakespeare three times, one of which did not even provide any sort of analysis.  Shakespeare is one of the great sonnet writers in the English language, and it's not hard to understand why.  Even so long after their writing, they can speak to our hearts directly, becoming immediately modern and relevant.  I firmly believe that his writings will never go to the wayside.

The forgiveness of love, even when it is self-damaging, is the central theme and source of the narrator's pain in this sonnet.  The narrator's love, be it romantic or otherwise, clearly has some flaws.  That's okay.  The first four lines establish that all things, even beautiful things, have their (often painful) flaws.  Roses have thorns, fountains get muddy, the sun and moon are hidden from sight, flowers get dead spots.  The narrator admits as much of himself.  "All men make faults, and even I in this."

In this refers to the narrator's habit of enabling his love's faults.  "Authorizing thy tresspass" is the way he puts it.  He corrupts his love, and encourages bad behavior, instead of "salving" (healing).  He over-excuses the faults of the other.  Even when he is the one harmed, he advocates for his love.  "For to the adverse party is thy advocate."  The narrator's "civil war" is the way he enables this behavior from his love, gets hurt, and does it again regardless out of love.  He is the accessory to that which "sourly robs from me."  

To act out of love in such a self-destructive way, knowing full well that you are causing your own woes, but being unable to do otherwise.  That's as relevant today as it has ever been.  So often people are attracted to those who are bad for them, and they know it, but they persist anyways.  This poem will never stop being relevant, and this internal struggle will always play out.  It's somehow comforting to know that people who lived in such an almost unimaginably different past than us had such similar struggles in their daily lives.