National Poetry Month #21 - Song
Song
John Donne
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true, and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet;
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.
Today we are bringing you John Donne (1572-1631), that rock star of the Renaissance, that dashing dean of divinity, that absolute stud of a preacher man. In the old days before he took the pulpit at St. Paul's Cathedral, he was a great favourite with the women, though sometimes he was not so hot about them and it is in these moods that he wrote poetry like the above 'Song', bemoaning the fidelity of women. Doubtless a double standard, Donne. I believe he genuinely loved his wife Ann More though, which is more than can be said for pretty much the rest of the Renaissance men. I haven't been involved with the Metaphysicals for years now, but I'll always have a thing for that John Donne. Mmm.
John Donne
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true, and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet;
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.
Today we are bringing you John Donne (1572-1631), that rock star of the Renaissance, that dashing dean of divinity, that absolute stud of a preacher man. In the old days before he took the pulpit at St. Paul's Cathedral, he was a great favourite with the women, though sometimes he was not so hot about them and it is in these moods that he wrote poetry like the above 'Song', bemoaning the fidelity of women. Doubtless a double standard, Donne. I believe he genuinely loved his wife Ann More though, which is more than can be said for pretty much the rest of the Renaissance men. I haven't been involved with the Metaphysicals for years now, but I'll always have a thing for that John Donne. Mmm.