Poem of the day

Death Be Not Proud
John Donne

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

“Death Be Not Proud” is among the most famous and most beloved poems in English literature. Its popularity lies in its message of hope couched in eloquent, quotable language. Donne’s theme tells the reader that death has no right to be proud, since human beings do not die but live eternally after “one short sleep.” Although some people depict death as mighty and powerful, it is really a lowly slave that depends on luck, accidents, decrees, murder, disease, and war to put men to sleep. But a simple poppy (whose seeds provide a juice to make a narcotic) and various charms (incantations, amulets, spells, etc.) can also induce sleep—and do it better than death can. After a human being’s soul leaves the body and enters eternity, it lives on; only death dies.

Wow, I simply love it!!! You've explained it so eloquently dear Thank you so much !! We're really learning each day with you

welcome my dear friend

Heartless



Source:http://www.booksie.com/all/all/the_illusionist/i-am-the-heartless

Fidelity by D.H. Lawrence

Man and woman are like the earth, that brings forth flowers
in summer, and love, but underneath is rock.
Older than flowers, older than ferns, older than foraminiferae,
older than plasm altogether is the soul underneath.
And when, throughout all the wild chaos of love
slowly a gem forms, in the ancient, once-more-molten rocks
of two human hearts, two ancient rocks,
a man’s heart and a woman’s,
that is the crystal of peace, the slow hard jewel of trust,
the sapphire of fidelity.
The gem of mutual peace emerging from the wild chaos of love.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers
BY EMILY DICKINSON

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

Very nice poem, and very positive
yet Dickinson never visited any of the "chillest land" or of "the strangest sea". she was very reclusive and parochial, but her imagination so vaaaaaaaaaaaast. One of the best poetesses America could produce. We always blame puritanism for its strict moral code, bigotry and absence of freedom, forgetting that it offered America its best two poetesses: Emily Dickinson and Anne Bradstreet.
So hope is a little chirping bird perching in our souls, asking for nothing in exchange. quite captivating imagery! starkly contrasting edgar allan Poe's black raven of disillusionment and despair! but both poems are exciting. there is yet another mention of small birds in a short poem by Lawrence on the human defect of self-pity

Self-pity

I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.

gracias Sabine

De nada hermano. Wooooooooow bless you aspire. Thanks for the very valuable information you provide us with. you're really impressing me. In fact, I really appreciate reading Anne Bradstreet's poems. She exposes the role of women in many of her poems. By reading them, one can get an idea of how life was for Puritan women.
The poem I like more is "The Author to her Book" It's written in an amazing way and full of metaphors.

Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad expos'd to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i' th' house I find.
In this array, 'mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
In Critics' hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus'd her thus to send thee out of door.

Bradstreet’s poem “The Author to Her Book” examines the author’s chagrin at having her work published without her knowledge and exposed to the critical public. In 1647 Bradstreet's brother-in-law, Rev. John Woodbridge, sailed to England, carrying her manuscript of poetry. Although Anne later said that she did not know Woodbridge was going to publish her manuscript, in her self-deprecatory poem, ""The Author to Her Book". In an extended metaphor, the author’s book becomes her child; hence, she is embarrassed when it is snatched from her and reflects on her as the mother.

The child’s flaws are so glaring to the mother; she characterizes the book by describing its unwashed face, its rags, and its ungainly limbs. However, a mother’s affection makes the author protective and sympathetic to her creation, as she tries to clean it up and warns it not to fall into critics’ hands.

Despite the author’s attachment to her “offspring,” she is still ashamed to send it out the door (only she is poor and needs the money). I can almost hearing Bradstreet sighing and shrugging, as if to say, “Well, what else can I do?” as she sends her poetry off into the world.

Thanx Sabine for the nice words!! i'm so flattered!

I too like Bradstreet so much, and the poem u mentioned was part of our programme, yet i didn't know about her brother-in-law. Thanks for the info.

my favourite however is her "If Ever two were One then Surely We", dedicated to her husband. Poets rarely praise their wives/husbands in their poems, it's generally their mistresses/lovers.




TO MY DEAR AND LOVING HUSBAND

By Anne Bradstreet

If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.
They love is such I can no way repay;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let's so persever,
That when we live no more, we may live ever.


hope you enjoy it

Welcome aspire and thanks for choosing this poem

aspire wrote:
Poets rarely praise their wives/husbands in their poems, it's generally their mistresses/lovers.

that's so true. I appreciate it so gracias otra vez