612:That Time of Year

Once again February 14th looms. Some of you may already be aware of what to me is a grime "feast day."

This of course relates to events of over two years ago, promises of infinite love, given and received. There were no tacky, pinky, satiny, plasticky greetings cards, no "champagne supper for two" but this was the real thing,

In defiance of all advice and logic, I am keeping my promise; there will be no change - change is not an option.

This year in place of Rupert Brooke I have chosen Percy Shelley:

And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;--
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

 And John Donne:

Such wilt thou be to mee, who must
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begun.

 

Until the next time

A Bit More of 9th September

WOMAN'S CONSTANCY.
by John Donne


NOW thou hast loved me one whole day,
To-morrow when thou leavest, what wilt thou say ?
Wilt thou then antedate some new-made vow ?
            Or say that now
We are not just those persons which we were ?
Or that oaths made in reverential fear
Of Love, and his wrath, any may forswear ?
Or, as true deaths true marriages untie,
So lovers' contracts, images of those,
Bind but till sleep, death's image, them unloose ?
            Or, your own end to justify,
For having purposed change and falsehood, you
Can have no way but falsehood to be true ?
Vain lunatic, against these 'scapes I could
            Dispute, and conquer, if I would ;
            Which I abstain to do,
For by to-morrow I may think so too.

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Until the next time.

More Poetry

Or in this case, Poëtry.  I have expressed elsewhere my admiration and respect for poets, and here bow before one of the masters of the art and shamelessly quote him for my own base ends.

I have restored the correct spelling and capitalisation, because I am a pedant, and that would go down well if shee were stalkinge here (or at least would have...)

The Triple Foole

I am two fooles, I know,

      For loving, and for saying so

          In whining poëtry;

But where's that wiseman, that would not be I,

          If she would not deny?

Then as th' earth's inward narrow crooked lanes

    Do purge sea water's fretful salt away,

I thought, if I could draw my paines

    Through Rime's vexation, I should them allay.

Griefe brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,

For he tames it, that fetters it in verse.

      But when I have done so,

      Some man, his art and voice to show,

          Doth Set and sing my paine;

And, by delighting many, frees againe

          Griefe, which verse did restraine.

To Love and Griefe tribute of Verse belongs,

    But not of such as pleases when 'tis read.

Both are increased by such songs,

    For both their triumphs so are published,

And I, which was two fooles, do so grow three;

Who are a little wise, the best fooles be. 

By John Donne of course, written some time between 1593 and 1601. 

   And here's something which is possibly even older; it perhaps comes from Persia but not from the famous Rubâ'iyát, but is quoted in the introduction to the edition I have by Professor Reynold Nicholson; I have not been able to locate the origin:

How tyrant-like doth Destiny disdain,

To stretch a pitying hand to helpless pain,

But when she stumbles on a bleeding heart

Stabs deeper yet and slays once more the slain.

Until the next time 

(Sorry about the bizarre format of this post, but HTM 'Ell is totally beyond me: if it plays up, there's not a damned thing I can do about it).