The Top 500 Poems: 400-301

[DWill]

I sure am glad I didn't try to say anything about that last poem. There are two things I'm not sure I got; one from the commentary and the last line of the poem.


1.

The boyfriend dies in his sleep.

I'm not seeing this.

2. Than by my threatenings rest still innocent. ?????

That commentator (who I think might really be Pres. Comacho) was embellishing, true enough. I just think a twisted commentary goes with a twisted poem. I'm glad no one here tries to fake it. I can't help you with the last line.

The last Donne for a little while. Bound to cheer people up. 346. "The Funeral."

WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm,
Nor question much,
That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm ;
The mystery, the sign, you must not touch ;
For 'tis my outward soul,
Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone,
Will leave this to control
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall
Through every part
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all,
Those hairs which upward grew, and strength and art
Have from a better brain,
Can better do 't ; except she meant that I
By this should know my pain,
As prisoners then are manacled, when they're condemn'd to die.

Whate'er she meant by it, bury it with me,
For since I am
Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry,
If into other hands these relics came.
As 'twas humility
To afford to it all that a soul can do,
So 'tis some bravery,
That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.

[Saffron]

That commentator (who I think might really be Pres. Comacho) was embellishing, true enough. I just think a twisted commentary goes with a twisted poem.

Well, that tasty little piece sounds about right for our dear ol' chum, President Comacho.

[bleachededen]

That commentator (who I think might really be Pres. Comacho) was embellishing, true enough. I just think a twisted commentary goes with a twisted poem.

Well, that tasty little piece sounds about right for our dear ol' chum, President Comacho.

We should ask him to read it and prove its authenticity.

[DWill]

345. "There is a Garden in Her Face,' by Thomas Campion. (Maybe we should go back to Donne!)

There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heav'nly paradise is that place
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
There cherries grow which none may buy,
Till 'Cherry ripe' themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow;
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,
Till 'Cherry ripe' themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till 'Cherry ripe' themselves do cry.

[Saffron]

345. "There is a Garden in Her Face,' by Thomas Campion. (Maybe we should go back to Donne!)


Till 'Cherry ripe' themselves do cry.

What, DW? Do you not like cherries? I liked the title, but must say I was saddly disappointed by the poem. Who let this one get into print?

[bleachededen]

There is a Garden in Her Face

That title sounds like a really bad "your face" joke.

[GaryG48]

What, DW? Do you not like cherries? I liked the title, but must say I was saddly disappointed by the poem. Who let this one get into print?

Someone has decided that there are 155 poems worse than this one in the top 500. No accounting for taste indeed.

[DWill]

Well, the English do love their gardens, so I guess for them this is the height of compliments. I keep wanting to substitute "salad" for garden, for some odd reason I can't explain. Maybe after getting really mad at your sweetie, the salad ends up in her face.

My mind's not right.

[DWill]

Shakespeare has the floor. I think it will be okay to post the three sonnets at once. Those who might be very familiar with his sonnets (not me) might scratch their heads over the ones that made it into the 500. I guess I'm satisfied, because I peeked and saw that "That time of year thou may'st in me behold"--my favorite of the sonnets I know--is No. 4.

344. "Like as the waves make toward the shore."

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end,
Each changing place with that which goes before
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith, being crowned,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight
And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of natures truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow;
And yet, to times, in hope, my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

343. "Tired with all these, for restful Death I cry."

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone

342. "No longer mourn for me when I am dead."

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it, for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
Or if, I say, you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.

[bleachededen]

Oh, Shakespeare, how I love thee.