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Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 872
old hand
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old hand
Joined: Sep 2001
Posts: 872 |
Dear Fallible,
One does not have to wander far away from Omar to get one's fill of metaphors of life, death, and ( maybe not rebirth), but love...
The Rubaiyat
-FitzGerald, Fifth Edition, Quatrain 100 and 101
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again--
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look for us
Through this same Garden--and for one - in vain!
And when like her, oh Saki, you shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made One--turn down an empty Glass!
TAMAM.
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Joined: Nov 2000
Posts: 866
old hand
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old hand
Joined: Nov 2000
Posts: 866 |
hatch, match and despatch
stales
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Joined: Nov 2001
Posts: 279
enthusiast
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enthusiast
Joined: Nov 2001
Posts: 279 |
Howye fokes
I like this pome about death. It's was wrote in the 17thC by Jame Shirley.
Death the Leveller
THE glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown 5
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crookèd scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill: 10
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath 15
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds. 20
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
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Joined: Nov 2001
Posts: 279
enthusiast
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enthusiast
Joined: Nov 2001
Posts: 279 |
Ah sure, while I'm at it, I'll throw this one in as well. It's sorta on the same theme. It's by ted Hughes
Thistles
Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
Thistles spike the summer air
And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.
Every one a revengeful burst
Of resurrection, a grasped fistful
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up
From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.
Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.
-- Ted Hughes
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