The Power of Poetry

Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly,

may gaze through these faint smokes curling whitely,

as thou pliest thy trade in this devil's smithy,

which is the poison to poison her, prithee?

He is with her, and they know that I know where they are,

what they do.

They believe my tears flow while they laugh,

laugh at me,

at me fled to the drear empty church to pray God in, for them!

I am here,

grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste,

pound at thy powder, I am not in haste.

Better sit thus and observe thy strange things

than go where men wait me and dance at the King's.

That in the mortar, you call it a gum?

Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come,

and yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue,

sure to taste sweetly, is that poison too?

Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures,

what a wild crowd of invisible pleasures!

To carry pure death in an earring,

a casket, a signet, a fan-mount, a filigree-basket.

Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give,

and Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live.

But to light a pastille

and Elise with her head and her breast and her arms

and her hands, should drop dead.

Quick, is it finished?

The colour's too grim. Why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim?

Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir

and try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer.

What a drop.

She's not little, no minion like me.

That's why she ensnared him.

This never will free the soul from those masculine eyes.

Say no to that pulse's magnificent come and go.

For only last night, as they whispered,

I brought my own eyes to bear on her so

that I thought, could I keep them one half-minute fixed,

she would fall, shrivelled.

She fell not. Yet this does it all.

Not that I bid you spare her the pain.

Let death be felt and the proof remain.

Brand, burn up, bite into its grace.

He is sure to remember her dying face.

Is it done?

Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose.

It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close.

The delicate droplet,

my whole fortune's fee.

If it hurts her, beside,

can it ever hurt me?

Now take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill.

You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will.

But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings.

Ere I know it, next moment I dance at the King's.

RETCHING

Yeah, man, I told you, sorted.

Listen, the guy will give you no more grief. Do you understand?

All right, see you in a bit.

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares.

My feast of joy

is but a dish of pain.

My crop of corn is but a field of tares.

And all my good

is but vain hope of gain.

The day is past,

and yet I saw no sun.

And now I live...

..and now my life is done.

My tale was heard

and yet it was not told.

My fruit is fallen,

and yet my leaves are green.

My youth is spent

and yet I am not old.

I saw the world

and yet I was not seen.

My thread is cut...

..and yet it is not spun.

And now I live...

..and now my life is done.

I sought my death

and found it in my womb.

I looked for life

and saw it was a shade.

I trod the earth...

..and knew it was my tomb.

And now I die...

..and now I was but made.

My glass is full,

and now my glass is run.

And now I live...

..and now my life is done.

It little profits that an idle king

by this still hearth,

among these barren crags,

matched with an aged wife...

..I mete and dole unequal laws unto a savage race,

that hoard and sleep and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel.

I will drink life to the lees.

All times I have enjoyed greatly, have suffered greatly,

both with those that loved me, and alone.

On shore, and when through scudding drifts

the rainy Hyades vexed the dim sea.

I am become a name, for always roaming with a hungry heart

much have I seen and known.

Cities of men

and manners,

climates, councils, governments.

Myself not least, but honoured of them all,

and drunk delight of battle with my peers,

far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met,

yet all experience is an arch

where through gleams that untravelled world,

whose margin fades forever and forever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

to rust unburnished, not to shine in use,

as though to breathe were life.

Life piled on life were all too little,

and of one to me.

Little remains, but every hour is saved from that eternal silence,

something more, a bringer of new things,

and vile it were for some three suns to store and hoard myself,

and this grey spirit yearning in desire

to follow knowledge like a sinking star,

beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son...

..mine own Telemachus,

to whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,

Well-loved of me,

discerning to fulfil this labour,

by slow prudence to make mild a rugged people,

and through soft degrees subdue them to the useful and the good.

Most blameless is he,

centred in the sphere of common duties,

decent not to fail in offices of tenderness,

and pay meet adoration to my household gods when I am gone.

He works his work,

I mine.

There lies the port.

The vessel puffs her sail.

There gloom the dark broad seas.

My mariners, souls that have toiled and wrought and thought with me,

that ever with a frolic welcome

took the thunder and the sunshine,

and opposed free hearts, free foreheads.

You and I are old.

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.

Death closes all,

but something ere the end,

some work of noble note may yet be done,

not unbecoming men that strove with gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks. The long day wanes.

The slow moon climbs.

The deep moans round with many voices.

Come, my friends, 'tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off and sitting well in order smite the sounding furrows,

for my purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset,

and the bars of all the western stars until I die.

It may be

that the gulfs will wash us down.

It may be we shall touch the happy isles

and see the great Achilles whom we knew.

Though much is taken,

much abides,

and though we are not now that strength

which in old days moved earth and heaven,

that which we are, we are.

One equal temper of heroic hearts

made weak by time and fate,

but strong in will

to strive,

to seek, to find,

and not to yield.

Ulysses!

It little profits that an idle king

by this still hearth, among these barren crags,

matched with an aged wife,

I mete and dole unequal laws unto a savage race,

that hoard and sleep and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel.

I will drink life to the lees.

All times I have enjoyed greatly, have suffered greatly,

both with those that loved me, and alone.

COUGHS

On shore,

and when through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades vexed the dim sea.

I am become a name,

for always roaming with a hungry heart

much have I seen and known.

Cities of men

and manners, climates, councils, governments.

Myself not least,

but honoured of them all,

and drunk delight of battle with my peers,

far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met,

yet all experience is an arch

where through gleams that untravelled world,

whose margin fades forever and forever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

to rust unburnished, not to shine in use,

as though to breathe were life.

COUGHS

Life piled on life were all too little,

and of one to me.

Little remains...

..but every hour is saved from that eternal silence,

something more,

a bringer of new things,

and vile it were for some three suns to store and hoard myself,

and this grey spirit yearning in desire

to follow knowledge like a sinking star,

beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son...

..mine own Telemachus,

to whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,

Well-loved of me...

..discerning to fulfil this labour,

by slow prudence to make mild a rugged people,

and through soft degrees subdue them to the useful and the good.

Most blameless is he,

centred in the sphere of common duties,

decent not to fail in offices of tenderness,

and pay meet adoration to my household gods when I am gone.

He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port.

The vessel puffs her sail.

There gloom the dark broad seas.

My mariners, souls that have toiled and wrought and thought with me,

that ever with a frolic welcome took the thunder and the sunshine,

and opposed free hearts, free foreheads.

You and I are old.

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.

Death closes all,

but something ere the end,

some work of noble note may yet be done,

not unbecoming men that strove with gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks.

The long day wanes.

The slow moon climbs.

The deep moans round with many voices.

Come, my friends,

'tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off and sitting well in order smite the sounding furrows,

for my purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset,

and the bars of all the western stars until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down.

It may be

we shall touch the happy isles

and see the great Achilles whom we knew.

Though much is taken,

much abides,

and though we are not now that strength

which in old days moved earth and heaven,

that which we are, we are.

One equal temper of heroic hearts

made weak by time and fate,

but strong in will

to strive,

to seek,

to find,

and not to yield.

O Melia,

my dear, this does everything crown,

who could have supposed I should meet you in town?

And whence such fair garments, such prosperity?

O didn't you know I'd been ruined?

..said she.

You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,

tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks.

And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three.

Yes, that's how we dress when we're ruined...

..said she.

At home in the barton you said "thee" and "thou",

and "thik oon" and "theas oon" and "t'other",

but now your talking quite fits 'ee for "high company".

Some polish is gained with one's ruin,

said she.

Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak,

but now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,

and your little gloves fit as on any lady.

-We never do work when we're ruined,

-said she.

You used to call home life a hag-ridden dream,

and you'd sigh and you'd sock,

but at present you seem to know not of megrims or melancholy.

True. One's pretty lively when ruined,

said she.

I wish I had feathers...

..a fine sweeping gown,

and a delicate face, and could strut about town.

My dear,

a raw country girl such as you be cannot quite expect that.

You ain't ruined...

..said she.

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,

and 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 preserved 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 as well we may, and now, like amorous birds of prey,

rather at once our time devour than languish in his slow-chapt power.

Let us roll all our strength and all our sweetness up into one ball...

..and tear our pleasures with rough strife

through the iron gates of life.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun stand still,

yet we will make him run.

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,

and 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 preserved 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 amorous birds of prey,

rather at once our time devour than languish in his slow-chapt power.

Let us roll all our strength and all our sweetness up into one ball,

and tear our pleasures with rough strife

through the iron gates of life.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun stand still,

yet we will make him run.

Go, lovely rose.

Tell her that wastes her time, and me,

that now she knows, when I resemble her to thee,

how sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

and shuns to have her graces spied,

that hadst thou sprung in deserts where no men abide,

thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth of beauty from the light retired.

Bid her come forth, suffer herself to be desired,

and not blush so to be admired.

Then die,

that she the common fate of all things rare

may read in thee how small a part of time they share,

that are so wondrous,

sweet and fair.

Subtitles by Red Bee Media Ltd

E-mail [email protected]