We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day; Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood; And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow. An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserv'd virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The grave's a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like am'rous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power. Let us roll all our strength, and all Our sweetness, up into one ball; And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Bird Dog ... Thank you for printing this in the blog. I agree [somewhat] with ARt C. that it's one of the better poems ever written, although his comparison with J. Buffet's Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw is quite jarring, and wholly inadequate.
The last six lines grow ever more poignant as one grows older. Sooo, my friends, "So let us sport us while we may; And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather, at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapped power."
And eat as much Gulf shrimp as you can, while it is still un-oiled, except with melted butter. That's what we're doing.
Sorry Marianne, but Marvel wrote this in his 30's, and perhaps even his late 20's. Even poets don't have that much insight when they are into the poignancy of aging.
You may draw more from the poem than the author provided, of course. Good readers often do. For a literary figure, perhaps one only has to be good enough to attract good readers, who carry you the rest of the way. I've thought that about Hawthorne and a few others, actually.
Assistant Village Idiot