No Finer Ear for Poetry

 Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) was English Poet Laureate during the reign of Queen Victoria. He is considered by many critics to be the greatest poet of that era and was easily the most popular poet writing in England. He had a particularly fine ear for musical rhythms and rhymes in his verse. T. S. Eliot said Tennyson had “the finest ear of any English poet since Milton (1608-1674). He tackled a variety of subjects in his poetry including classical mythology, religious issues, industrialization, mortality, etc. His most well-known and widely read poem is “Ulysses.” Another poem about the Greek hero, Ulysses, on one of his adventures, is “The Lotos Eaters.” Tennyson, who knew Homer’s epic The Odyssey by heart, took the short episode from Book IX. 82-97 in which Ulysses told King Alcinous about an encounter with the inhabitants on the island of the Lotos Eaters. Here is Homer’s episode, translated into prose by Samuel Butler (1900):

"I was driven thence by foul winds for a space of nine days upon the sea, but on the tenth day we reached the land of the Lotos-eaters, who live on a food that comes from a kind of flower. Here we landed to take in fresh water, and our crews got their mid-day meal on the shore near the ships. When they had eaten and drunk I sent two of my company to see what manner of men the people of the place might be, and they had a third man under them. They started at once, and went about among the Lotus-eaters, who did them no hurt, but gave them to eat of the lotus, which was so delicious that those who ate of it left off caring about home, and did not even want to go back and say what had happened to them, but were for staying and munching lotus with the Lotos-eaters without thinking further of their return; nevertheless, though they wept bitterly I forced them back to the ships and made them fast under the benches. Then I told the rest to go on board at once, lest any of them should taste of the lotus, and leave off wanting to get home, so they took their places and smote the grey sea with their oars.”

In the Odyssey, Ulysses’ account is concise, focusses on Ulysses’ strong leadership, command of his crew and the appalling effect of eating the lotos fruit. Tennyson significantly expands the episode to 183 lines, focusing instead on a vivid description of the island and on the crew’s experience of eating the lotos flower. It begins with Ulysses’ brief encouragement, “Courage…”, winds through 5 stanzas spoken by a third-person narrator, then embarks on 8 stanzas of choric song sung by the mariners who have eaten the lotos fruit. Here are the first five stanzas:

                       The Lotos-Eaters

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land,
"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."
In the afternoon they came unto a land,
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke,
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops,
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.

The charmed sunset lingered low adown
In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale
And meadow, set with slender galingale;
A land where all things always seem'd the same!
And round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
To each, but whoso did receive of them,
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake,
And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Father-land,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, "We will return no more;"
And all at once they sang, "Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."

Tennyson’s poem begins as Ulysses and his crew as they are approaching the Island of the Lotos-eaters. In Homer’s Odyssey, Ulysses simply provides the plot of what happened without description of the island. Tennyson’s imagery of the island is rich and offers a tranquility that can alleviate the hardships his men have been enduring. However, the imagery anticipates also the psychological effect eating the lotos will have on Ulysses’ men. As they view the land, the mariners see what looks like an eternal, tropical paradise where “…it seemed always afternoon.” The air languidly swoons, the moon is always full, the stream falls, but seems to pause, and then appears rather like smoke.

Stanza 2 continues the sensuous description: they see a “A land of streams!” Water flows like “smoke” and looking west they see “…far off three mountaintops / Three silent pinnacles of aged snow / Stood sunset-flushed.” This image of “sunset” subtly contrasts with the timelessness the mariners sensed in the first stanza of “it seemed always afternoon.” In stanza 3, the sunset is “charmed,” and “lingered low adown / In the red West” and once again time is standing still: “A land where all things always seemed the same!” What the mariners have observed so far seems a serene, timeless land to rest and refresh themselves. At this moment, Tennyson introduces the “mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters.”

In stanza 4, the Lotos-eaters give the mariners the lotos flowers. Those who eat undergo a profound transformation: “…but whoso did receive of them / And taste, to him the gushing of the wave / Far away did seem to mourn and rave / On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, / His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; / And deep-asleep he seemed, yet all awake, / And music in his ears his beating heart did make.” What also changes are how we see the imagery of those first three stanzas.

The island’s natural, Edenic beauty seemed to offer the opportunity for the mariners a tranquil rest from their arduous sea journey. But the enchanted aura of the land in the stanzas 1-3 now seems deceiving. The Edenic imagery appears more mirage than reality, designed to lure the unsuspecting mariners into eating the hypnotic flower. The effect of the lotos flower on the mariners in the last stanza of this section suggests such is the case:

...And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most weary seemed the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, "We will return no more";
And all at once they sang, "Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."

The poem does not end with the “narcotic” effect of the lotos rendering the mariners oblivious. In the Choric Song they discuss the alternative merits of remaining forever lotos-eaters or choosing to again set out upon the sea and continue their efforts to return to Ithaca, their home in Greece. In the next post I will include the rest of the poem with more brief commentary.  

Dover Beach

Along with Alfred Tennyson and Robert Browning, Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) was one of the most respected writers of the Victorian period (1832-1901). His reputation as an important poet and essayist was highly valued through most of the twentieth century. These days, fewer and fewer students read or study his works. The poem that everyone should read is “Dover Beach.” Arnold and his wife spent their honeymoon at his hotel in Dover overlooking the English Channel, which became his inspiration for the poem. In his most famous poem, the major anxieties of the nineteenth-century resonate with particular power:

                         Dover Beach
The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits-on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the noon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The sea of Faith 
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of night wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
so various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

The poem begins with the speaker observing a peaceful scene: “The “sea is calm…out in the tranquil bay.” (1-5) He calls his love to the window to share this view, but instead of directing her eyes toward the moonlight, he tells her to “Listen!” to the “grating roar / Of pebbles” tumbling against the shoreline. This sound draws him from his initial serenity and induces his imagination to hear “The eternal note of sadness” in the waves. He gives shape and gravity to what he means by “eternal note of sadness” in the next stanza by alluding to the Greek playwright Sophocles. For Sophocles, human beings’ lives were governed by fate and life could be beset by tragedy no matter what actions a person took, as he demonstrates in his most famous play Oedipus Rex.

As a Victorian writing in the aftermath of Darwin’s writings and the erosion of religious faith, Arnold’s faced a world of changing beliefs that differed profoundly from those held by men and women who lived a generation before him. Born into a Victorian family with a father who was a devout Christian clergyman and historian, Arnold was raised with the traditional Anglican faith of the time, but as he grew older his faith weakened and the rapidly changing world sowed uncertainty and doubt within his mind. What meaning could life have without the beneficent god who cared for humanity? In stanzas 3 and 4, this absence of the Chrisian God possessed his thoughts and filled him with the dread he voices in the last lines of the poem. Today, a new god has risen, artificial intelligence. Its creators blithely assert that it will replace love, faith and poetry. But this deity will provide no more “joy,” “love,” or “light,” than the god that left Arnold alone to look across the sea and imagine those “ignorant armies” fighting wars as destructive and meaningless as the ones armies continue to undertake.  

A Milton Sonnet

 In 1632, just past his twenty-third birthday, John Milton (1608-1674) seems to have had a touch of anxiety. Seven years earlier, he entered Christ College Cambridge and embarked on his studies. His intention was to take holy orders and become a Protestant minister. He worked his way through a Bachelor of Arts (1629) and a Master of Arts (1632). As he matured, Milton steeped himself in great literature. He read rapaciously and absorbed the poetry of Homer, Virgil, Edmund Spenser, and Shakespeare, to name a few. His love of these great poets most certainly affected his thinking and inspired him to compose his early great poems “On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity,” “On Shakespeare,” “L’Allegro,” and “Il Penseroso.” It was during this period that the trajectory of his life seems to have swerved from the path of a religious career to one dedicated to poetry. Of course, as with so many young people, Milton looked toward the future and worried over the choice he would make. His father wondered why at twenty-three Milton had yet to begin his career as a minister, which increased his angst. Perhaps to rationalize his delay and restrain his anxiety Milton wrote his sonnet, “How soon hath Time”:

                            Sonnet VII
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
   Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
   My hasting days fly on with full career,
   But my late spring no bud or blossom sheweth.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
   That I to manhood am arrived so near;
   And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
   that some more timely-happy spirits endueth.
Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow,
   It shall be still in strictest measure even
   To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of heaven,
   All is, if I have grace to use it so,
   As ever in my great task-master's eye.

The opening two lines make a familiar claim. Even when young, time moves faster than anticipated and surprises a person who suddenly feels shuttled into adulthood. Here, “Time” is a “subtle thief of youth” and has “Stolen on his wing [Milton’s] three-and-twentieth year.” “Stolen” is grammatically the verb of subject “Time,” and means robbed; but interestingly the word also works as an adjective meaning sneaked. Why does Milton feel ambushed by “Time”? Lines 3 and 4 explain: “My hasting days fly on with full career, / But my late spring no bud or blossom sheweth”: Milton had passed his 23rd birthday, but what had he to show for it? By this time in his life he was expected, particularly by his father, to begin a ministry in the church, but he kept postponing taking holy orders. His father and his university friends wondered why he had not and questioned him about his delay.

Milton was realizing that a religious ministry might not be what he envisioned himself pursuing. He had begun to feel that his true “calling” could be to write poetry. Milton’s metaphor of “But my late spring no bud or blossom shewth” acknowledges he should be more advanced along his religious “career,” but has nothing to show for his years of study. In lines 5-8, Milton admits he looks much younger than he is, “Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,” and believes his contemporaries are endowed (“endueth”) with more maturity (“ripeness”) than he. Milton looking outward at his appearance and looking inward at his maturity reverberates his uneasiness about where he should be in life. He is close to “manhood” but is trailing his contemporaries socially, who by the age of twenty-three were expected to be well along in the career they had chosen. These lines complete the octave of the sonnet and what follows is the sestet.

In the next six lines, Milton turns away from scrutinizing himself and contemplates what his lack of progress means philosophically and theologically. He conceives of his life’s progress as determined and measured by the flow of “Time” and the “will of heaven.” Being a religious Calvinist when he wrote this poem, Milton believed that he needed God’s grace, but equally important was how he “use” God’s grace constructively. As he sees it, whatever he chooses to do with his life can fulfill God’s will, his “great task-master” who watches over all he does. Still, the confidence Milton reaches for in the last two lines probably did not convince himself and certainly does not convince the reader. In the end he certainly chose well.

Wordsworth's Lucy Poems

William Wordsworth (1770-1850) wrote five poems that were formed into a group after his death in 1850. The group is called the Lucy poems, and all but one of the poems was written in 1799 while he and his sister Dorothy were visiting Germany. During their time there, Wordsworth became depressed. He missed his collaborator and closest friend Samuel Taylor Coleridge and was homesick for England. No one has been able to identify who this Lucy was, although scholars speculate that she might be based on his sister Dorothy or his future wife, Mary Hutchinson. Though other critics see her as fictional or a literary device, a strategy simply invented by Wordsworth’s fertile imagination. The poems are elegiac ballads about love and untimely death. They are tinged with a speaker’s unremitting grief, and they suggest Wordsworth was not only an unparalleled writer of nature poetry, but also was one with a poignantly elegiac voice.

In the first poem, the speaker experiences a frightening fear that suddenly shocks him:

                Strange Fits of Passion Have I Know 

Strange fits of passion have I know
And I will dare to tell,
But in the Lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell.

When she I loved looked every day
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath an evening moon.

Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
All over the side lea;
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard plot;
And, as we climbed the hill,
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
Came near, and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopped:
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropped.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a Lover's head!
"O mercy!" to myself I cried,
"If Lucy should be dead!"

As a ballad, this poem narrates a story, one which is brief and limited in action. The speaker journeys one night to his lover’s cottage. Before he begins his tale, he tells the reader that “Strange fits of passion have I known” but will only reveal to his Lover what those “fits” are. Of course, once we read the last line, we learn the particular effect of the fit overwhelms the speaker in this poem when he imagines the possibility of Lucy’s death. That final line likely startles the reader as it does the speaker with its abrupt and unexpected dark exclamation. What brings about this wave of fear that fills the speaker?

When the speaker begins his journey to Lucy’s cottage, he states that “she I loved looked every day / Fresh as a rose in June.” While her lovely, youthful appearance is in his imagination his eyes become “fixed” on the “evening moon” above him. He and his horse “climbed the hill,” and the moon seems to be sinking closer to “Lucy’s cot.” At this point, the speaker drifts into “one of those sweet dreams” of sleep with yet opened eyes, which he identifies as “Kind Nature’s gentlest boon!” Carried along in this trance-like state by his horse, the speaker awakens suddenly by the dropping of the moon behind Lucy’s “cottage roof.” This brief narrative poem ends with the speaker approaching always nearer his destination but never reaching it and we are suspended with him and his anxiety in time and place with each reading of the poem.

The poem “She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways” praises Lucy’s beauty and virtue and, this time mourns her actual death:

       She Dwelt Among Untrodden the Ways

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
   Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
   And very few to love;

A violet by a mossy stone
   Half hidden from the eye!
--Fair as a star, when only one
   Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
   When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
   The difference to me!

Perhaps this is the same woman as in the first poem, but we cannot be certain she is. Here, Lucy lived apart from the world, lived as a “Maid whom there was none to praise / And very few to love…” Her anonymity was a loss to humanity, since her beauty was singularly rare, distinguished by the second stanza’s metaphor of “A violet by a mossy stone / Half hidden from the eye!” and the simile of “…a star, when only one / Is shining in the sky.” The final stanza reiterates her obscurity, then registered his devastating loss of Lucy in those last lines, which acknowledge that any further expression of grief is impossible.

The next Lucy Poem is the longest and introduces Nature as a character:

         Three Years She Grew

Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;
This Child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.

"Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse: and with me
The Girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.

"She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs;
And hers shall be the breathing balm
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the Storm
Grace that shall mold the Maiden's form
By silent sympathy.

"The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.

"And vital feeling of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell."

Thus Nature spake--the work was done--
How soon my Lucy's race was run!
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.

In stanza 1, the speaker begins a brief story that will bring him sorrow. He tells us that Nature chose three years old Lucy to be “A Lady of my own.” In stanza 2, Nature says that she will “feel an overseeing power /To kindle or restrain.” In 3, She shall be “sportive” and sensitive. In 4 and 5, Nature will see that all things within Nature’s realm and cosmos will “mold the Maiden’s form.” In 6, Nature will instruct Lucy to cherish the gifts of earth. Through Nature, Lucy becomes a paragon of beauty and vitality. But that excellence is short-lived, and in the last stanza, we learn of Lucy’s death.

Like “She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways,” the speaker’s sorrow is profound. Lucy has “left to me / This heath, this calm, and quiet scene.” Will this tranquility of Nature console him? More likely, he will despair over what “never more will be.”

The shortest of the Lucy’s poems is “A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal”:

         A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal

A slumber did my spirit seal;
  I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
  The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;
  She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
  With rocks, and stones, and tree.

The force of this pithy statement of grief cannot be overstated. The speaker perception of Lucy in stanza 1 is numbed, in a state of sleep. The question is, did a “slumber” make him simply unaware of the possibility of Lucy’s mortality, or did Lucy’s youth and beauty seem immortal and beguile him into a “slumber”? Reading stanza 2, Lucy could not “Feel / The touch of earthly years” and she slumbers now in the eternity of death. And in that death, Lucy becomes one with “earthly years” now beyond time as she whirls in “…earth’s diurnal course / With rocks, and stones, and trees.”

The last of the Lucy poems is “I traveled Among Unknown Men.” This poem was written two years after Wordsworth wrote the other four. The anxiety and grief that resonates through the earlier poems appears to be displaced in this one by Wordsworth’s love of England:

   I Traveled Among unknown men

I traveled among unknown men,
   In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
   What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
   Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
   To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel
   The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
   Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,
   The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine too is the last green field
   That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

“I Traveled Among Unknown Men” might disappoint the reader. It seems rather tame after the intensity of the first four Lucy poems. England has now become the object of the speaker’s love—for the English countryside with its mountains and “green field[s].” Though Lucy appears in this poem, she certainly seems secondary to nature (lower case ‘n’ here). Still, she remains a mystery and fortunately always will. 

Sailing to Byzantium

From the earliest of his poems to the last ones he wrote, William Butler Yeats frequently dwelt on the subject of growing old. Perhaps his most famous poem that addresses aging is “Sailing to Byzantium.” For anyone who is interested in getting to know Yeats’s poetry, this poem is among the dozen or so that is essential to read. It was written in 1926, when Yeats was sixty-one. It is challenging intellectually, but also powerfully poignant.

                 Sailing to Byzantium

                                     1
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
--Those dying generations--at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

                                      2
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing,
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

                                       3
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
and be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

                                       4
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enameling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

In this poem, Yeats rejects the sensuality of sexual passion and yearns to journey away from all things physical to a realm of abstract, idealized artistic beauty. Stanza 1 snaps our attention with the curt statement “That is no country for men. Ireland is “no country for old men” such as Yeats, since he sees the passionate young in “one another’s arms and hears birdsongs joyfully celebrating their fertility and believes he is too old and infirm to participate in that world of sensual fulfillment. The one quality he still possesses that should “commend” him to his country, his creative prowess, is of little value where “all neglect / Monuments of unageing intellect.”

In stanza 2, Yeats fashions a distressing image of himself: “An aged man is but a paltry thing, / A tattered coat upon a stick.” Yet, within this “paltry thing” still exists the soul, and if that “Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing, / For every tatter in its mortal dress,” it can transport him to a realm where “studying / Monuments of its own magnificence” is the true music to replace the music of sensuality. As stanza 2 closes, Yeats announces that he has actually already left Ireland: “And therefore I have sailed the seas and come / To the holy city of Byzantium.” Why Byzantium? In A Vision, (1925) a book he published shortly before he wrote the poem, Yeats revealed his belief that artists were truly valued there: “I think that if I could be given a month of antiquity and leave to spend it where I chose, I would spend it in Byzantium a little before Justinian opened St. Sophia...I think that early Byzantium, maybe never before or since recorded history, religious, aesthetic, and practical life were one, that architects and artificers…spoke to the multitude…”

In stanza 3, Yeats does not just imagine himself roaming the ancient city; he locates himself within Byzantium’s holiest structure, the Church of the Hagia Sophia. Once there, the speaker invokes the sages to leave “God’s” purifying “fire,” beseeching them to be the “singing-masters of my soul” and “Consume my heart away.” Of course, old age has withered him and would be enough to justify his request of the sages, but it is not old age or encroaching mortality only that compels his need to escape the physical world; he calls for a spiritual transformation to achieve artistic: immortality: “…and gather me / Into the artifice of eternity.” His request flows also from the anguish he feels in stanza 1 and 2, his alienation from the fertile world of vigorous sexuality. Though his heart is “fastened to a dying animal” it is not his age or fear of death that makes him ill; it is the combination of having a heart made “sick” by the “desire” that can no longer be fulfilled.

Stanza 4 is curious in that Yeats seems to have moved back in time to Ireland and is once again imagining himself out of his physical body and transformed into art. In the first two lines he employs the future tense verb to indicates what he intends to do: “Once out of nature I shall never take / My bodily form from any natural thing” [.] He continues in this future frame with what he envisions to be one possible “form” of existence he could assume: “But such form as Grecian goldsmiths make / Of hammered gold and gold enameling” [.] As a work of gold sculpture, Yeats will be transformed into an aesthetic untouched by deprivations of old age. But this “artifice of eternity” takes away his poetic voice making him a static figure, seen but never heard. His second idea of a bird set upon a “golden bough to sing / To lords and ladies of Byzantium / Of what is past, or passing, or to come” immortalizes Yeats’s poetry through both time and space.

September 1913

William Butler Yeats’s “September 1913” is one of his best and most anthologized political poems. The poem’s title was originally “Romance in Ireland (On reading much of the correspondence against the Art Gallery).” Its present title appeared in his collection Responsibilities 1914. Knowing the social context of Ireland at the time of the poem’s composition deepens the reader’s understanding and appreciation of this great poem. For five years prior to the poem, the Irish art dealer Hugh Lane offered to bequeath paintings he had acquired during his years as a collector to the city of Dublin. His only condition was that the Dublin Corporation provide funds to build a municipal art gallery to house the works. These paintings would include works by Corot, Manet, Degas and Renoir. During five years of negotiation between Lane and the Corporation, William Martin Murphy, a railroad magnet and publisher of the Irish Independent, vehemently opposed funding for the gallery. His newspaper published dozens of letters from middle- and upper-class Dubliners who also objected to the gallery, but not because of the money it would require constructing it. Rather, many of them claimed that the art intended for the gallery was vulgar and violated Catholic morals. Arguing in favor of the proposed gallery, Yeats initially wrote a poem explicitly about the controversy, “To a Wealthy Man who promised a second Subscription to the Dublin Municipal Gallery if it were proved the People wanted Pictures,” which lambasts the shallow middle- and upper-class attitudes toward art. In “September 1913,” Yeats not only exposes the middle- and upper-classes as philistines who value materialism above all else; he also grieves for a heroic, “romantic” Ireland he believed existed in the past but now is “dead.” The poem is composed as a ballad, with a refrain closing each stanza with a reference to John O’Leary, (1830-1907). O’Leary was an Irish patriot who was a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. He agitated for Irish Home Rule in the 19th century and was arrested for treason and sentenced to twenty years imprisonment. He served five years then was exiled for the remainder of his sentence.

                   September 1913
 What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone;
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
The have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wings upon every tide;
For this that all the blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry, "Some woman's yellow hair
Had maddened every mother's son":
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.

In the first stanza, Yeats scorns his countrymen who are only interested in adding their “halfpence to the pence” and timidly saying their prayers. Ireland no longer produces men who possess the noble and heroic qualities of the past. Men like O’Leary who sacrificed their liberty or life in the struggle to free Ireland from British rule. Stanza 2 alludes to the men of the past, “names that stilled your childish play,” who without reservation gave themselves to the “hangman’s rope.” Stanza 3 identifies noble men of the past, Fitzgerald, Tone, and Emmet who died fighting for Ireland against England’s oppressive rule.

Yeats’s contempt for the shallow materialism and religious hypocrisy of his Irish countrymen is easy to understand and justify. No doubt, there was much of both circulating among the citizens of Dublin when he wrote the poem. Yeats seems to have been unaware in this poem that in Dublin at the time was also a nobility and bravery that was growing and would surface in the Easter rebellion of 1916. That week-long hopeless but valiant uprising would reverse Yeats’s thinking and inspire his other great poem about what the Irish were capable of.

Yeats and Maud Gonne

 The poetry of William Butler Yeats spans fifty years. During that course of time, Yeats evolved stylistically and thematically. His early poems often reflect his interest in Irish myth, legends and tales. His later poems shift toward politics, the contrast between youth and age, the Irish fight for independence and civil war and his personal mythology regarding human history. The single most repeated presence in Yeats’s poetry is Maud Gonne, his unrequited love. In every collection of his poetry except one, is at least one poem alluding to or metaphorically suggesting Maud Gonne. Yeats met Gonne in January 1889, and soon after fell hopelessly in love with her. She was born in 1866 and became an Irish patriot, an actress and a feminist. She was a political activist, one of the founders of Sinn Fein and was fervent in her work for Irish independence from Britain in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. She also was a successful actress and the heroine in Yeats’s first play, Cathleen ni Houlihan. In 1891, Yeats, asked her to marry him, but she refused. Undeterred, he asked her four more times, but each time she said they could only be friends. To his horror, Gonne married Major John MacBride in 1903, and though a “drunken vainglorious lout,” MacBride was one of the heroes of the Easter 1916 uprising, executed after the revolt failed. He was an abusive husband, and he and Gonne separated in 1905. Her separation from MacBride gave Yeats hope that Maud might finally love him as he loved her. That was never to be, but all was not lost since his heartache fermented much of his verse he was to compose. Here is an early poem, written shortly after Gonne first refused to marry Yeats; it subtly alludes to her in the second stanza.

                   The Sorrow of Love

The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,
The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,
And all that famous harmony of leaves,
Had blotted out man's image and his cry.

A girl arose that had red mournful lips                          5
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,
Doomed like Odysseus and the laboring ships
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;

Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves,
A climbing moon upon an empty sky,                            10
And all that lamentation of the leaves,
Could but compose man's image and his cry.     
                                                                                       (1892)

In the first stanza, it becomes clear that something regarding nature is amiss. The image of “brawling of a sparrow” clashes with the middle lines that paint attractive images of a “milky sky,” a “Brilliant moon,” and a “harmony of leaves.” Then, the last line bluntly states that all of these images “had “blotted out man’s image and his cry." In the nineteenth-century poets, such as Wordsworth, had proclaimed that nature could engender a “sense sublime / Of something far more interfused.” Nature had offered boundless possibilities for joy and artistic creation, especially for poets. In this case, nature has become antagonistic, erasing man’s identity and his speech. Is Yeats suggesting that nature can no longer offer inspiration or is he projecting his own dejection onto nature?

The second stanza shifts to a different subject. Suddenly, “A girl arose that had red mournful lips,” followed by the enigmatic line “And seemed the greatness of the world in tears.” Who is the girl and why is she denoted as “the greatness of the world in tears”? The simile that closes the stanza reveals her identity; she is obviously Helen of Troy, the “girl” who bewitched Paris and sparked the two great poems of Homer. Scholars of Yeats (and Yeats himself) have frequently pointed out that Yeats identified Maud Gonne with Helen of Troy. As you read Yeats’s poems, you will discover time and again this symbol (Helen) that he would most often employ to represent his unfulfilled passion for Maud Gonne.

Stanza 3 picks up the thread began in the previous stanza with the verb “Arose,” but then reproduces the imagery in stanza 1, only this time, “A girl” presides over those images and “rewrites” them in a way that reflects Yeats’s despair. The moon ascends an “empty sky,” and the leaves’ “lamentation leave no doubt that the presence of Helen now dominates and even supersedes nature as a force impelling Yeats’s imagination. For Yeats, Maud Gonne will always be his muse.

Spring Poems

 Geoffery Chaucer, in his opening lines of The Canterbury Tales, suggests that each April brings a promise of rebirth and renewal. Relieved and grateful that the life-engendering power of spring has returned after the dark, cold winter days, his pilgrims happily set off on a journey to offer prayers of thanks to the saint of Canterbury, Thomas Becket, for protecting their health through the bleak period of winter.

When April with its sweet-smelling showers
Has pierced the drought of March to the root,
And bathed every vein (of the plants) in such liquid
By which power the flower is created;
When the West Wind also with its sweet breath,
In every wood and field has breathed life into
The tender new leaves, and the young sun
Has run half its course in Aries,
And small fowls make melody,
Those that sleep all the night with open eyes
So Nature incites them in their hearts,
Then folk long to go on pilgrimages...
Harvard's Chaucer Website

Poems celebrating the return of spring after the desolation of winter is a well-worn tradition in poetry. But spring has not always elicited relief or joy in poets. Later poets have explored how spring arouses regret, dismay, sorrow or even despondency. Wordsworth’s spring poem, “Lines Written in Early Spring,” (1798) commences with a musical serenity but quickly descends into a mournful mood.

         Lines Written in Early Spring

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man had man made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
the periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure--
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

Reclining in a grove, the speaker hears "a thousand blended notes”—nature’s music and feels a “sweet mood” come over him. Nevertheless, that “sweet mood” is one in which “pleasure thoughts / Bring sad thoughts to the mind.” Why do “pleasant thoughts” make him think of “sad thoughts”? In stanza 2, Wordsworth implies what had made him sad. He believed that human beings and nature are essentially interconnected: “To her fair works did Nature link / The human soul that through me ran.” Moreover, he was convinced that sharing in the “fair works” of nature should induce human beings to appreciate not only the sublime beauty of the physical world but also elevate their minds and spirits, making them kind, gentle, charitable, and noble. Instead, the world around him had been undergoing turbulent economic changes. The Industrial Revolution had given birth to sprawling manufacturing towns that forced swaths of the population from small villages to work in “dark satanic mills” as characterized by the fellow poet Willaim Blake. In addition, the enclosure of open-field farms by privately owned large agricultural interests displaced hundreds from small farms and drove many into poverty. Wordsworth saw cruelty and greed of these economic policies as directly contradicting the true relationship humans were supposed to have with nature. Nature inspires Wordsworth with joy, but the behavior of men blighted the potential joy of spring: “And much it grieved my heart to think / What man has made of man.”

Through the next three stanzas of the poem, Wordsworth continues to embrace nature but the feeling in stanza 1 haunts him. In stanza 3, he states ‘‘tis my faith that flowers enjoy flower / Enjoys the air it breathes.” But in stanza (4), that “faith” or certainty recedes slightly as he admits that he cannot know what the birds think, but he wants (“seemed”) to believe their movement denotes “a thrill of pleasure.” In stanza 5, he watches the leaves emerge from their winter sleep and “catch the breezy air.” The “pleasure” he should experience spontaneously from this seasonal gift of nature has to be compelled by his mind into thoughts: “think, do all I can, / That there was pleasure there.” The exertion here is as much emotional as it is intellectual. As the poem concludes, Wordsworth constructs a logical proposition in the form of a question. If the beauty and glory of nature is a gift or “holy plan,” what else can he do but “lament / What man has made of man?”

Perhaps the most despondent utterance about the arrival of spring comes from T. S. Eliot’s famous opening lines of The Waste Land. (1922)

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

It should be clear that these lines echo Chaucer’s from The Canterbury Tales. When first encountering the poem, many readers are bewildered by them. However, considering them after reading Wordsworth’s “What man has made of man,” their meaning and power can be more easily grasped. Eliot wrote his poem in the aftermath of the enormous death and destruction of the First World War. The shock of the war filled Eliot with a genuine dread, and a fear that life had become morally and spiritually sterile. For him, humans were trapped in a nightmare of existential alienation. How could spring with its “promise” of resurrection be sustained for Eliot in this modern world that “man had made”? Eliot meanders among the consciousness of the dead souls in his poem, through that waste land, and if you read his poem, you will be surprised what he, and ultimately you, discover.    

Saint Patrick's Day Poem

During the Easter week of 1916 Irish rebels took over the General Post Office in Dublin and battled British forces for control of the city. The Irish surrender and the British government executed several leaders of the revolt. William Butler Yeats, who believed strongly that violence was the wrong way to shake off English rule, nevertheless commemorated those who led the Irish and were executed in his poem Easter 1916:

           Easter 1916

I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter of desk among gray
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good will
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too has been changed in hi turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
the horse that comes from the road,
the rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
changes minute by minute;
A horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moorhens  dive,
And hens to moorcocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of it all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
On limbs that had run wild.
What was it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse--
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Yeats begins by thinking of times he had encountered a few of the rebel leaders in the course of everyday life. What unfolds is a mini narrative of previous encounters with those who fought that Easter week. He had “met them at close of day,” acknowledged them as they “passed,” exchanged “polite meaningless words,” and essentially felt that they and he “But lived where motley is worn.” These men and women seemed to him plain, insignificant human beings. But something has changed, and the stanza closes with the refrain that proclaims, “All changed, changed utterly: / A terrible beauty is born.”

Stanza 2 drops us abruptly among “characters” who obviously fought against the British. Each seems quite ordinary and certainly far from heroic. Yeats withholds their names: “That” woman who apparently argue for the Irish cause “Until her voice grew shrill”; two other men, one who “had kept a school,” and the other who possessed a “sensitive…nature”; finally, “A drunken, vainglorious lout.” All of them have performed in what Yeats terms “the casual comedy;” but as in stanza 1, the poem’s refrain tells us the revolt was certainly no comedy, and that these rebels are “Transformed utterly” by what they did and again that within Ireland “A terrible beauty is born.”

Something quite unexpected and unusual happens in stanza 3. He contrasts devotion to a single purpose to the “living stream” of time and change. The unnamed persons above become “Hearts with one purpose alone / Through summer and winter seem / Enchanted to a stone.” The rebel’s single-minded resort to violence disturbed Yeats. He supported the Irish goal of self- determination but recoiled from the violence that the rebels used to achieve that end. How could he resolve these conflicting points of view?

In the final stanza, Yeats moves back and forth within his ambivalence regarding the violent methods of the rebels. He asks first whether “Too long a sacrifice / Can make a stone of the heart?” Fighting against the stronger, dominant English seemed to harden hearts and cause senseless deaths. His judgment of the rebels quickly falls back as he decides to leave judgment to “heaven’s part.” He muses that the rebels are akin to children to be named by the poet the way “a mother names her child / When sleep at last has come / On limbs that had run wild.” This fantasy fades when he asks and answers, “Was is it but nightfall? / No, no, not night but death.” He realizes that the rebels are more than simply zealous, unbending ideologues; they were “Bewildered” by “excess of love” and were patriots who fought and died for their freedom. The ambivalence he expressed earlier in the poem gives way to his view that they are the agents of the terrible beauty [that] is born.” He pronounces the names he left unsaid before in a roster of heroes to be honored forever:

I write it out in a verse--
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Why Read Paradise Lost?

 John Milton’s Paradise Lost is often recognized as the greatest poem in the English Language. The poem is a powerful masterpiece that Milton hoped would “find” a “fit audience…though few.” (VII, 31) Although it never had a broad, popular “audience,” today, the poem is less read than it should be, which is attributable to less apt or oblivious reading public.

Paradise Lost is the story of the Fall of Adam and Eve, but unlike the biblical version in Genesis, 3:1-5 which takes a few minutes to read, Milton’s epic spans ten-thousand lines. Adam and Eve are meant to be the poem’s central subject, but Satan, the luminous Lucifer who was once God’s favorite, is the character who inspires awe in the reader. Milton did not intend for him to be the hero or antihero of the poem, yet the English Romantic poets William Blake, Lord Byron, and Percy Shelley certainly saw him as such. Blake thought him to be the poem’s hero in Satan’s bold assertions, and Lord Byron was drawn to Satan’s rebellious spirit—“better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.” In his Defense of Poetry, Shelley observed that “Nothing can exceed the energy and magnificence of the character of Satan as expressed in Paradise Lost.”

In the opening lines, Milton tells us why he composed Paradise Lost

Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater man                          
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat. (I, 1-5)

This initial passage proclaims Milton’s profound ambition, which was to “assert eternal providence / And justify the ways of God to man,” (I, 26) makes us think that the poem will begin in the Garden of Eden. Milton has something else in mind and it will be three books before we will meet the “grandparents” of humanity. First, we are introduced to Satan, who dominates the narrative of Books I and II. After rebelling against God’s rule in heaven (told in later books) and being utterly defeated, Satan lies “vanquished” (I, 52) in “floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire.” (I, 77)

He sees his fellow fallen angel, now a devil, Beelzebub, and tells him he neither regrets his rebellion nor laments the horrific suffering he has brought upon himself and the one-third of heaven, the angels who joined his ranks. “Yet not for those, / Nor what the potent victor in his rage / Can inflict, do I repent or change.” (I, 96) A little later in this first speech come words that inspired the Romantic poets and, frankly, so many other readers of this great poem. No force, no matter how powerful, can undermine Satan’s resolve to continue fighting against the “oppressive” foe who has demanded his subservience. In valiant words he exclaims,

                          ...What though the field be lost?
All is not lost; the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield:
And what else not to be overcome?
That glory never shall his wrath or might
Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace
With suppliant knee, and deify his power... (I, 105-112)

Traditional Christian teaching and literature does not prepare readers for this depiction of Satan. Rather than a prince of evil or darkness, he seems to have been waging a legitimate revolt against a “…grand foe, / Who now triumphs, and in th’ excess of joy / Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heav’n.” (I, 122-124) Is God simply a tyrant and Satan an angelic freedom fighter? Satan’s third speech contains lines readers most often quoted to argue Satan is a heroic rebel. He claims Hell as is own and asserts his profound psychological freedom:

Receive thy new possessor: one who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n. (I, 252-255)

This is certainly not the singular description we have of the serpent who deceives Eve in Genesis. Here is a character who is not only undaunted by this tormenting prison but who also believes he can undo control of its effect within his mind. He continues:

Here we may reign secure, and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav'n. (I, 261-263)

To make the most of this “horrible destruction” (I, 137) within the imagination is impressive. To transform it to a kingdom over which he can reign is an astonishing act of indomitable dignity. Beelzebub, who already praised Satan, (I, 128-133) responds to this speech by reminding Satan that if he calls to his troops of fallen angels and they will be roused from their stunned condition and “they will soon resume / New courage and revive, though now they lie / Groveling and prostate on yon lake of fire.” (I, 277-280) In the rest of Book I, Satan “comforts” his fallen comrades “with hope yet of regaining Heaven” and tells them lastly of the rumor of a new world and new kind of creature to be created. The devils construct Satan’s Palace, Pandaemonium and the next section of the poem begins in Book II.

As Book II opens, the narrator presents Satan as a royal king whose resilience inspires the fallen angels and the reader:

High on a throne of royal state, which far
Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,
Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand
Show'rs on her kings barbaric peal and gold,
Satan exalted sat, by merit raised
To that bad eminence, and from despair
thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires
Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue
Vain war with Heav'n, and by success untaught
His proud imaginations thus displayed.  II, (1-10)

From his throne, Satan addresses his army, assuring their defeat and banishment to Hell cannot destroy them.

"Powers and Dominions, deities of Heav'n,
For since no deep within her gulf can hold
Immortal vigor, though oppressed and fall'n,
I give not Heav’n for lost. From this descent
Celestial Virtues rising, will appear
More glorious and more dread that from no fall,
And trust themselves to fear no second fate." (II, 11-17) 

His unflagging confidence energizes his army, and he proposes they debate the best way to attack Heav’n and God once more: …“and by what way, / Whether of open war or covert guile, / We now debate: who can advise, may speak.” II, 40-43 A series of speeches follow with one devil calling for “open war,” (II, 51) another for accepting their defeat, and a third suggesting they mine the mineral riches in Hell. Beelzebub steps in and argues that they should send someone in “search of this new world” (of Adam and Eve) created by God and somehow “Seduce them to our party, that their God / May prove their foe, and with repenting hand / Abolish his own work.” (II, 368-370) The devils unanimously agree and Satan volunteers to find the new creation and explore how they might be “Seduced” to the devils “party.” He flies through space, encounters two extraordinary creatures, directed by Chaos toward Eden which he reaches in Book IV.

In Book III, Milton introduces the character of God, whom readers have found rather unappealing. He looks down from heaven, sees Satan flying toward the Garden of Eden with the aim of corrupting Adam and Eve and tells his Son how Satan will succeed:

                                                            ...And now
Through all restraint broke loose he wings his way
Not far off Heav'n, in the precincts of light,
Directly towards the new-created world,
And man there placed, with purposed to assay
If him by force he can destroy, or worse,
By some false guile pervert; and shall pervert;
For man will hearken to glozing lies,
And easily transgress the sole command,
Sole pledge of his obedience: so will fall
He and his faithless progeny: whose fault?
Whose but his own? Ingrate, he had of me
All he could have; I made him just and right
Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall. (III, 86-99)

Why does God argue he is not responsible for protecting Adam and Eve from this powerful adversary? Why does he lecture that he created them free to withstand Satan’s temptation and gave them the freedom to sin. Although free will makes them “Sufficient” and “free,” he created them, and he is omniscient, omnipotence, foresees what is going to happen and could as easily prevent the suffering and death that would cascade through the generations after Adam and Eve transgress as he did Satan’s attempt to overthrow his rule. Did Milton notice that his character comes across as arbitrary, argumentative and unforgivably callous when God tells his son that he has “immutable foreseen” (III, 121) that Adam and Eve would be deceived by Satan? The full speech can be read here. (III, 80-134)

Book IV takes us back to Satan as he approaches earth. The narrator describes Satan as “bold” (IV, 13) and “fearless” (IV, 14) and defines his psychological torment he cannot escape: “The Hell within him, for within him Hell / He brings…” (IV, 20-21) Shortly afterwards, in one of the most interesting scenes in the poem, Satan evokes the reader’s pity as he poignantly laments his crime and reveals his guilt. But first, his pride and anger erupt, and he denounces the sun for its shining brilliance, since it reminds him of former brightness when he was the luminous Lucifer:

O thou that with surpassing glory crowned,
Look'st from thy dominion like the God
Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice and add thy name
O Sun, to tell thee I hate thy beams
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down
Warring in Heav'n against Heav'n's matchless King;
Ah wherefore! He deserved no such return
From me, whom he created what I was... (IV, 32-43)

His ego cannot tolerate this new reality, but the Lucifer that has been eternally transformed by his own actions has lost the brilliance he once emitted. Suddenly, he identifies the flaws, “pride and worse ambition,” that instigated his revolt, feels a pang of guilt, blames himself for freely choosing to revolt, and recognizes he cannot escape his torment:

Nay cursed be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! Which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And in the lowest deep a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer sems a Heav'n. (IV, 71-78)

(The “thou” above refers to Satan himself.) How different is Satan’s language from the proud speeches in Books I and II. Here, he blames himself for his punishment and “rues” the choice he made in rebelling against God. His torment is excruciating, scorching his body and his mind. That torment makes him wonder that if he were to “submit,” would God’s forgiveness be possible. But his “Disdain,” for “that word” and his “dread of shame / Among the spirits beneath” make doing so impossible. As he wrestles with what he might do, he sinks deeper into despair:

O then at last relent: is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
Th' Omnipotent. Ay me, little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan;
While they adore me on the throne of Hell,
With diadem and scepter high advanced
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery; such joy ambition finds. (IV, 79-92)

In Satan’s despair we see the remorse that could lead to contrition and to readmission to heaven. But he does consider how repenting might restore him to his former state:

But say I could repent and could obtain
By act of grace my former state; how soon
Would highth recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
What feigned submission swore: ease would recant
vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep... (IV, 93-99)

Satan concludes that his pride will never enable him to repent and therefore forgiveness will never be his. He ends his soliloquy with the resolute conviction to pursue his revenge:

So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear,
Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost;
Evil be thou my good; by thee at least
Divided Empire with Heav'n's King I hold
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As man ere long, and this new world shall know.

We begin to see the real Satan—the arrogant and prideful angel of Death who finally admits his deep loss of God’s glory. Satan knows he is the embodiment of Hell to which his ego can never accept defeat. His resentment tells him that although he could repent and be readmitted to God’s grace, his “deadly hate” would never allow him to submit. Seeing Satan fully wrapped up in his gloating and despair, it enables us to contrast him with what we realize is God’s goodness even though we may be uncomfortable with his fatherly sternness.  

Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind"

      Percy Shelley is one of the great 19th century Romantic poets. Unfortunately, his poems have not always enjoyed high praise from all who have read his work. For instance, the poet T. S. Eliot once dismissed Shelley, writing that “The Ideas of Shelley seem to me always to be ideas of adolescence…I find his ideas repellent.” In spite of this critical judgment, Eliot’s own poetry was influenced by Shelley’s, and later in his life Eliot even acknowledged the profundity of Shelley’s final unfinished poem “The Triumph of Life.” Among critics today, there isn’t much dispute about the quality of Shelley’s poetry. But that quality does not assure that someone reading Shelley’s poems for the first time will find them inspiring or even interesting. That is true because his poems can often extend well beyond a reader’s comprehension. His most anthologized poem, “Ode to the West Wind” exemplifies this point.

                            Ode to the West Wind
                                             I
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, lie ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O Thou,              5
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within 'tis grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion e'er the dreaming earth, and fill         10
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!

                                             II
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, 15
Loose clouds like Earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head           20

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm.  Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which tis closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre                  25
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!

                                             III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,                 30
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers             35
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level's powers

Cleave themselves into chasm, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know                40

Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

                                             IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share           45

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed             50
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed         55
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

                                               V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies                    60

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!          65
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened Earth

The trumpet of prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?            70       

The first thing to know about this poem is that the Romantic poets (e.g. Coleridge, Wordsworth) connected the wind with the changing of the seasons, from autumn through winter and into spring. Shelley begins his poem by addressing the west wind as a “Wild Spirit” and depicting through his imagery this “Wind” as an animated presence that has the power to bring death and rebirth on earth. It drives the dead “Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red” leaves from the trees and “chariotest” the “winged seeds” to “their dark wintry” beds, where they “lie cold and low,/Each like a corpse…until/Thine azure sister (west wind) of the Spring” blows her trumpet and the world is reborn with “sweet buds” and fills “With living hues and odours plain and hill.” At the end of section I Shelley calls to the wind to “hear” him. What he wishes to communicate with this awesome “presence” is withheld until sections IV and V of the poem.

In section II of the poem, Shelley lifts his eyes to the sky and sees “clouds,” which his imagination connects to the dying leaves of section I. However, something rather unexpected and strange happens. Those clouds/leaves become “Angels of rain and lightning” which then become “Like the bright hair uplifted from the head/Of some fierce Maenad…/The locks of the approaching storm.” Shelley’s similes have taken us from analogies of fall and spring to biblical/apocalyptic imagery to the imagery of the frenzied women of the Greek myth of Dionysus, who was believed to die each fall and rise each spring. At the end of this section, he once again calls to the wind, asking it to “hear” him. The reader must wonder, what is it Shelley seeks? The first section suggests Shelley wants to express and celebrate the changing seasons and the cycle of life. But here the biblical and Greek imagery conveys something much more.

In section III, Shelley’s imagination looks seaward, to the Mediterranean and the Atlantic and envisions the west wind’s effect upon the waters. The wind’s “presence” awakens the Mediterranean from its “summer dreams” to mirror the “palaces and towers,” Roman emperors built above Baiae bay near Naples and now “All overgrown with azure moss and flowers/So sweet, the sense faints picturing them.” After his looking backward to Ancient Rome, Shelley pictures the Atlantic and sees the west wind cleaving its waves into “chasms,” while in the depths below, “The sapless foliage of the ocean, know/Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,/And tremble and despoil themselves.” The key word in the passage is the verb “know,” and in this section, Shelley affirms that like the leaves and clouds of the previous sections, the waters of Baiae Bay, the Atlantic’s waves, and the vegetation beneath the sea all “know” the west wind’s voice and obey its commands. Again, he cries “O hear!”

In the last two sections of the poem Shelley reveals what it is he wants the wind to “hear.” In lines 43-45, Shelley imagines himself as an object of the Wind’s power. Perhaps by being blown about by the wind, Shelley could “share” “The impulse of thy (wind’s) strength.” He remembers when he was young that the imagination of his “boyhood,” made him a “comrade” of the wind’s “wandering…to outstrip the skiey speed.” For the Romantic poets, childhood imagination, uncontaminated by the adult knowledge that can manacle it, could receive spiritual insights from nature. But this experience, freely open to those in childhood innocence, is no longer available to the adult Shelley. A way to receive the wind’s spirit is told in the next line: “I would never have striven/As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.” Striving with the wind in “prayer”? If Shelley’s language sounds familiar, that is because it has echoes of biblical characters (e.g. the Psalms, Job) who call on God to relieve their suffering. For the first time in the poem, he directly appeals to the wind and cries out for it to “lift [him] as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!” because “I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!/A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed/One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.” According to Shelley, the wind possesses the power to heal him, to relieve his suffering, to lift him beyond the limits of ordinary life. But he remains frustrated in his “striving” to be as the leaves, clouds and sea until in the final section he discovers a means to unchain his spirit.

In this concluding section, Shelley returns to Greek myth with the first four words: “Make me thy lyre.” The “lyre” is the Eolian lyre (it was also called a harp) is a musical instrument that produces sounds when the wind passes through its strings. The Greek poet and prophet Orpheus could charm all animate and inanimate objects with its music. Envisioning himself as the musical instrument upon which the west wind can play its harmonies, he can receive the “Spirit fierce” of the west wind, become one with that spirit, “Be thou me, impetuous one!” and have his “dead thoughts” driven “over the universe/Like withered leaves to quicken new birth!” The thoughts fall dead to the ground but are “quicken[ed] to a new birth” by the wind. The poem accelerates through lines 65-70, and Shelley rises like a poet/prophet calling on humanity to hear in his voice “the incantation of this verse,” which will “Scatter” his “words” among mankind!” This “incantation” will awaken humanity through the prophetic power of Shelley’s words: “Be through my lips to unawakened Earth/The Trumpet of a prophecy!” Finally able to receive the inspiration the west wind breathes into all life, Shelley is quietly confident and whispers the poem’s conclusion: “O Wind,/If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?”  

Thomas Traherne

      Thomas Traherne (1636-1674) was an Anglican clergyman and mystical writer who has often been associated with the Metaphysical poets John Donne, George Herbert, Henry Vaughan and Richard Crashaw. His poetry was largely unknown until a manuscript of his poems was discovered by William Brooke in a London bookstall in 1897. Many of Traherne’s poems employ metaphors that illustrate his understanding of the relationship between the physical and spiritual worlds. “Shadows in the Water” is one of his most popular poems and an interesting illustration of his work:

            Shadows in the Water

In unexperienc'd Infancy
Many a sweet Mistake doth lye:
Mistake tho false, intending true;
A Seeming somewhat more than View;
   That doth instruct the Mind                5
   In Things that lye behind,
And many Secrets to us show
Which afterwards we come to know.

Thus did I by the Water's brink
Another World beneath me think;
And while the lofty spacious Skies
Reversed there abused mine Eyes,
   I fancy'd other Feet
   Came mine to touch or meet;
As by some Puddle I did play
Another World within it lay.

Beneath the Water People drown'd,
Yet with another Heaven crown'd,
In spacious Regions seem'd to go
As freely moving to fro:
   In bright and open Space
   I say their very face;
Eyes, Hands, and Feet they had like mine;
Another Sun did with them shine.

'Twas strange that People there should walk,
And yet I could not hear them talk:
That thro a little watry Chink,
Which one dry Ox or Horse might drink,
   We other Worlds should see,
   Yet not admitted be;
And other Confines there behold
Of Light and Darkness, Heat and Cold.

I call'd them oft, but call'd in vain'
No Speeches we could entertain:
Yet did I there expect to find
Some other World, to please my mine.
   I plainly saw by these
   A new Antipodes,
Whom, tho they were so plainly seen,
A Film kept off that stood between.

By walking Men's reversed Feet
I chanc'd another World to meet;
Tho it did not to View exceed
A Phantasm, 'tis a World indeed,
   Where Skies beneath us shine,
   And Earth by Art divine
Another face presents below
Where People's feet against Ours go.

Within the Regions of the Air,
Compassed about with Heavens fair,
Great Tracks of Lands there may be found
Enriched with Fields and fertile Ground:
   Where many numerous Hosts,
   In those far distant Coasts,
For other great and glorious Ends,
Inhabit, my yet unknown Friends.

O ye that stand upon the Brink,
Whom I so near me, thro the Chink,
With Wonder see; What faces there,
Whose feet, whose Bodies, do ye wear?
   I my Companions see
   In You, another me.
They seemed Others, but are We;
Our second Selves those Shadow be.

Look how far off those lower Skies
Extend themselves! scarce with mine Eyes
I can them reach.  O ye my Friends,
What Secret borders on those Ends?
   Are lofty Heavens hurl'd
   'Bout your inferior World?
Are ye the Representatives
Of other People's distant Lives?

Of all the Play-mates which I knew
That here I do the Image view
In other Selves; what can it mean?
But that below the purling Stream
   Some unknown Joys there be
   Laid up in store for me;
To which I shall, when that thin Skin
Is broken, be admitted in.

This ten-stanza poem moves through two points of view, the innocent imagination of the child’s and the inspired vision of the believing Christian. By the poem’s end, the speaker reconciles what he saw as a child with what he envisions through his faith in Christianity. The first stanza prefigures a pattern of the rest of the poem. The speaker begins with the line “In unexperienced infancy,” a phrase which denotes innocent childhood, and follows by announcing an obvious characteristic common to that stage of life: “Many a sweet mistake doth lie.” He says that “though false, [these mistakes are] intending true,” then describes them as “A seeming somewhat more than view.” That “seeming” is important, because what appears to be true or real to the speaker as a child isn’t, but nevertheless has value, since it “instruct[s] the mind,” by offering him a glimpse of the “many secrets” he will “come to know” in his adulthood. In the rest of the poem, the speaker recalls how in his “unexperienced infancy” his imagination interpreted the reflections he saw in a puddle and how he interprets those images as an adult.

Stanza 2 starts with the speaker picturing himself as a child, standing by the edge of a puddle and viewing the reflections the world above cast in the water at his feet. Within that puddle the child saw “Another world,” one that his imagination playfully pretended to be real and not simply a reflection. In stanza 3, his innocent perspective enabled him to imagine that there exists “another Heaven” of people “freely moving to and fro,” and to see “Eyes, hands, and feet they had like mine.” As a child, this intriguing “world” fascinated him so much so that he desired to “play” within it, but when he attempted to communicate with the images he saw, he was frustrated because he “could not hear them talk.” Puzzled by this inability to communicate with this world, he wondered why “We other Worlds should see/Yet not admitted be”? In stanza 5, he attempted to converse with these images of “people” and “call’d to them oft, but in vain,” At this moment in the poem, the speaker begins to substitute his adult perspective for his childhood one and realizes that “tho they were so plainly seen,/A film kept off that stood between.” That perspective does not discard the metaphor of “Shadows” in “Water”; instead, it repurposes the metaphor to represent his Christian faith in the afterlife. The rest of the poem pursues this trajectory.

In stanza 6, the speaker recognizes the potential of the memory of his childhood experience and uses that perspective in his contemplation of what those “shadows” in the water intimate. He contemplates himself viewing the water as not a childhood fantasy, but as a portal to the spiritual realm. Thus, he now envisions “walking men’s reversed feet” and thereby encounters a second “world” that “Tho it did not to view exceed/A phantom, ‘tis a world indeed,/Where skies beneath us shine,/And earth by art divine/Another face presents below,/Where people’s feet against Ours go.” It is significant to note that at his point in the poem the speaker shifts verb tenses. Through stanzas 2-5.5, his recollection of his childhood puddle experience is expressed in past tense verbs. What he saw in the past has ended, just as the reflection would vanish each time the water would dry up. From here forward, the images he now sees are presented in the present tense, e.g., “‘tis a world indeed,” existing beyond the physical water. What the eyes only see as reflections and therefore a “phantom,” the speaker’s contemplative imagination, with the help of an “art divine,” perceive as spiritual interties existing, as the present tense verbs suggest, eternally.

This speaker’s realization at the end of stanza 6 initiates the vision that in stanza 7 expands further beyond the reflected world his childhood imagination played with. He imagines “the Regions of the Air,/Compassed about with Heavens fair,” the “Great Tracks of Land there” that are “Enriched with Fields and fertile Ground/ Where many numerous hosts/For other great and glorious ends/Inhabit.” The images in this stanza are not a reflection of the world above a puddle, but something far beyond the speaker’s physical world. A place where he eventually will meet his “yet unknown friends,” those he will encounter in eternity. In stanzas 8, he envisions images of the shadows in water, which earlier in the poem were mere reflections of the world above to be the souls of all those who lived and died. He sees them as “Our Second Selves these Shadow be.” Though he can no more communicate with these “shadows” than he could speak with the reflections he saw as child, he feels an inextricable bond and joy with those he envisions. The poem's final two stanzas express that joy in the rhetorical questions it asks and answers.

Stanzas 9 and 10 overflow with the joy the speaker feels as he reaches the climax of his contemplation. He looks up to the sky and asks his “yet unknown Friends” cosmic questions about the universe: “What secret borders” demarcate the skies, and “are lofty Heavens hurl’d/’bout your inferior World?” He wonders if the lives that inhabit “distant lives” are also only “representatives,” physical bodies containing souls to be released into eternity upon death. His visions then inspires him in the final stanza to anticipate the heavenly bliss that awaits him upon his own death:

Of all the Play-mates which I knew
That here I do the Image view
In other Selves, what can it mean?
But that below the purling Stream
   Some unknown Joys there be
   Laid up in store for me;
To which I shall, when that thin Skin
Is broken, be admitted in.

The speaker asks, “That here I do the Image view/ In other Selves, what can it mean?” Then he answers that the boundary between earth and heaven will be transcended, the “film…that stood between” (40) him and eternity will be “broken,” and inevitably he will “be admitted” into the kingdom of Heaven. Traherne’s obvious confidence that “unknown joys” of heavenly resurrection await him when he dies makes for a startling contrast with the doubt and anxiety that fill religious poetry of John Donne. Maybe the reader finds Traherne’s faith too easy and prefers the grueling struggles Donne puts himself through. Even so, Traherne’s poems deserve the attention the other Metaphysical poets merit.