Peter told me to add this poem into the blog. He said I would like it. He is partly right because I more than like it, I love it.
The poem is about Love Eternal. It is beyond love every waking moments, its goes on until and after death. Isn’t that just the most romantic thing ever 🙂 !!!
But romance aside, the poem apparently was used to send code during WWII. A message is encrypted within the poetry itself. This short poem was sent by Leo Marks to a French agent, Violette Szabo, who was ultimately captured, tortured and murdered by the Nazi (not because of the poem!). A film was made about Violette Szabo called Carve Her Name With Pride, where the poem was included but undergone an artistic licence, as Hollywood would often do. In the film the poem was supposed to have been written for her by her husband, Etienne.
This is such a sad poem by the Pulitzer Prize winner, Edna St Vincent Millay. It does evoke such a keen feeling of sorrow.
In not so many words, Edna was able to picture to us what it would be like to lose your other half or even someone you love or close to your heart.
It was so poignant the ways she said that time does not heal or let you forget. Probably a part of you dies with him.
She also said that you will remember him in all the places you were together, in every thing you did together. You will also think of all the things that he used to do including those things that used to vex you. You would then regret not being more tolerant! LOL
She also said that it was even sadder to do new things without him…There probably a feeling of guilt and regret that you can do things alone and you will remember him all over again!
This is really so sad. I don’t want to be ever without my Peter.
By the way, according to findings/surveys, widows fare better than widowers later on in life!
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,–so with his memory they brim!
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say,
“There is no memory of him here!”
And so stand stricken, so remembering him!
– Edna St Vincent Millay (February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950) was an American lyrical poet and playwright
Pen is not only mightier than a sword, it can oftentimes be bitchier.
Some quotes follows below of how authors, novelists and poets think of each other. It makes fascinating reading.
Any library is a good library that does not contain a volume by Jane Austen. – Mark Twain … “If Mr. Clemens (Mark Twain) cannot think of something better to tell our pure-minded lads and lasses,he had best stop writing for them.” (concerning Twain’s Huckleberry Finn) – Louisa May Alcott … People will accept your ideas much more readily if you tell them Benjamin Franklin said it first. – David H Comins …
Legend has it that Gioachino Rossinoi (of The Barber of Seville) was passionate about food. He had a recipe for macaroni that was so divine that it rivaled his glorious music. Alexander Dumas, who spent the later days of his life compiling the ultimate recipe book, heard of Rossini’s macaroni. He asked Rossini if he could include the recipe for the macaroni in his book. Rossini invited Dumas to his house. Rossini made a great effort to make the macaroni even better than perfect. But when Dumas arrived he said he never ate macaroni and was only after the recipe. Rossini was not impressed and refused to give Dumas the macaroni recipe. Sadly the recipe is lost for posterity.
Out of my flesh that hungers and my mouth that knows comes the shape I am seeking for reason. The curve of your waiting body fits my waiting hand your breasts warm as sunlight your lips quick as young birds between your thighs the sweet sharp taste of limes.
Thus I hold you frank in my heart’s eye in my skin’s knowing as my fingers conceive your flesh I feel your stomach moving against me.
Before the moon wanes again we shall come together.
And I would be the moon spoken over your beckoning flesh breaking against reservations beaching thought my hands at your high tide over and under inside you and the passing of hungers attended, forgotten.
Darkly risen the moon speaks my eyes judging your roundness delightful.
Now what is Love, I pray thee, tell? It is that fountain and that well Where pleasure and repentance dwell; It is, perhaps, the sauncing bell That tolls all into heaven or hell; And this is Love, as I hear tell.
Yet what is Love, I prithee, say? It is a work on holiday, It is December matched with May, When lusty bloods in fresh array Hear ten months after of the play; And this is Love, as I hear say.
Yet what is Love, good shepherd, sain? It is a sunshine mixed with rain, It is a toothache or like pain, It is a game where none hath gain; The lass saith no, yet would full fain; And this is Love, as I hear sain.
Yet, shepherd, what is Love, I pray? It is a yes, it is a nay, A pretty kind of sporting fray, It is a thing will soon away. Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may; And this is Love, as I hear say.
Yet what is Love, good shepherd, show? A thing that creeps, it cannot go, A prize that passeth to and fro, A thing for one, a thing for moe, And he that proves shall find it so; And shepherd, this is Love, I trow.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night ’tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, Lightning my pilot sits; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits; Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in Heaven’s blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead; As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of Heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine aëry nest, As still as a brooding dove.
That orbèd maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the Moon, Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till calm the rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the Sun’s throne with a burning zone, And the Moon’s with a girdle of pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-coloured bow; The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, While the moist Earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain when with never a stain The pavilion of Heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.
Come live in my heart and pay no rent – this has become a common and can be often heard during St Valentine’s Day. I thought it was actually rather witty and so now!
But apparently this line is actually from a 17th century poem by Samuel Lover.
Below is that poem and quite a very romantic too. It is about young love, young dreams and living now rather than later. Seizing love while still young rather than become cynical and forget what and how to love. Ahhhhhhh
Have a lovely weekend folks.
Live in my Heart and Pay No Rent
Samuel Lover (1797–1868)
’VOURNEEN, when your days were bright,
Never an eye did I dare to lift to you,
But now, in your fortune’s blight,
False ones are flying in sunshine that knew you
But still on one welcome true rely,
Tho’ the crops may fail, and the cow go dry,
And your cabin be burned, and all be spent,
Come, live in my heart and pay no rent;
Come, come, live in my heart,
Live in my heart and pay no rent;
Come, come, live in my heart,
Live in my heart, mavourneen!
’Vourneen, dry up those tears,
The sensible people will tell you to wait, dear,
But ah! in the wasting of Love’s young years,
On our innocent hearts we ’re committing a chate, dear.
For hearts when they ’re young should make the vow,
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground. So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you. Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust. A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew, A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,— They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve. More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
I love this poem by the American poet, Emily Dickinson. It is full of optimism. She compared that thing that we all rely on most of the time to a bird that would twit no matter what the weather is. It would always be there without fail. It makes me hopeful! 🙂