I have always liked this poem. In energy terms, it speaks to me, and I like its cleverness, dark humour and passion. At 48, I can often feel the pressure But at my back I always hear Times winged chariot hurrying near. There is so much I want to do, and be, and experience, before I die. My fear is the world is turning too slow on its axis, I can feel an urge to run and give it a spin. Increasingly though, I am seeking to breathe through this - and recognize it is less about analysis or evaluation (in a useful way) and more about fear and panic. Story. Plus which I dont see the what next bit in terms of deserts of vast eternity, more as an embarkation point. So I take a breath, and come back to now. To his Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk, and pass our long loves day; Thou by the Indian Ganges side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood; And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow. An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Times winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preservd virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The graves a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like amrous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chappd power. Let us roll all our strength, and all Our sweetness, up into one ball; And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Posted on: Sun, 03 Nov 2013 09:38:31 +0000