From too much love of living,
\nFrom hope and fear set free,
\nWe thank with brief thanksgiving
\nWhatever gods may be
\nThat no life lives for ever;
\nThat dead men rise up never;
\nThat even the weariest river
\nWinds somewhere safe to sea.\n<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
Now I’m generally not all about welcoming the sweet release of Death with open arms–I tend to think of myself more as a “do not go gentle into that good night” type–but you have to admit, that’s some lovely arranging of words. <\/p>\n
And aside from the raw beauty of the words, on first seeing them they called forth in my mind the image of men who have lived–men that strove with Gods, as ’twere–raising a toast to the fact that all stories eventually have an end. Not a surrender to Death, but an acknowledgement that endings are both part of the deal, and part of how things become meaningful. And of the notion that endlessness might be much more of a curse than a blessing–that “weariest river” coming home bit really hits that, I think. They’re not ready to give up even an hour to that eternal silence yet, but that doesn’t mean they fear an ending, or don’t know that someday the time will come to sail beyond the sunset. (Guess what my favourite Tennyson is. Heh.)<\/p>\n
This being the era of Google, it didn’t take me very long to find the source of that passage–a poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne<\/a> entitled “The Garden of Proserpine”. My quick search also revealed to me that ‘Proserpine’ is another form of Persephone<\/a>, fabled of Greek myth, which explains both the garden, and the link to death.<\/p>\n And, I have to say, in context that passage above becomes a lot less defiant than I had originally perceived it. It’s much less “heroic hearts made weak by time and fate” and much more Persephone personifying the inevitability and release of Death. The second half of the second verse pretty much makes that explicit, with its denial of time and life, and praise of the oblivion of sleep.<\/p>\n I admit, I don’t really know much about Swinburne, or his works, but after spending some time with this one today, I think I probably will have to look into him, and his oeuvre, further.<\/p>\n I’ll put the whole thing after the jump, in case you want to look into it, but I do want to call out one other particular passage as worthy of your attention–the one that immediately precedes the one that started this:<\/p>\n We are not sure of sorrow, The first half of that puts in me in the mind of Omar Khayyam–or maybe even a touch of Zeus’ final speech<\/a> in Santayana–but that second half? Wow. In four lines he personifies love as a doddering old man, shows him crying senile and only transiently lucid tears at heartbreak so old as to be nearly forgotten, and ALSO suggests that in aged Love’s lucid moments he’s almost ready to finally set aside the things that cause him this pain in return for peace? Crafting that image that quickly is some brilliant poetic brevity, but let’s not ignore just how powerful an image it is. Damn.<\/p>\n The Garden of Proserpine<\/strong><\/p>\n I am tired of tears and laughter, Here life has death for neighbour No growth of moor or coppice, Pale, without name or number, Though one were strong as seven, Pale, beyond porch and portal, She waits for each and other, There go the loves that wither, We are not sure of sorrow, From too much love of living, Then star nor sun shall waken, —Algernon Charles Swinburne<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Earlier today I ran into this passage in the course of my wanderings: From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. Now I’m generally not… Read more →<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":13,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[8],"tags":[123,194,100],"class_list":["post-2897","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-books","tag-life","tag-poem","tag-poetry","xfolkentry"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p5UQvw-KJ","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2897","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/13"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2897"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2897\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2908,"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2897\/revisions\/2908"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2897"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2897"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2897"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nAnd joy was never sure;
\nTo-day will die to-morrow;
\nTime stoops to no man’s lure;
\nAnd love, grown faint and fretful,
\nWith lips but half regretful
\nSighs, and with eyes forgetful
\nWeeps that no loves endure.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n![\"Proserpine\"](\"http:\/\/www.chrismclaren.com\/blog\/wp-content\/images\/HLIC\/421f48ecd12364779220fb70cf449bcb.jpg\")
Here, where the world is quiet;
\nHere, where all trouble seems
\nDead winds’ and spent waves’ riot
\nIn doubtful dreams of dreams;
\nI watch the green field growing
\nFor reaping folk and sowing,
\nFor harvest-time and mowing,
\nA sleepy world of streams.<\/p>\n
\nAnd men that laugh and weep;
\nOf what may come hereafter
\nFor men that sow to reap:
\nI am weary of days and hours,
\nBlown buds of barren flowers,
\nDesires and dreams and powers
\nAnd everything but sleep.<\/p>\n
\nAnd far from eye or ear
\nWan waves and wet winds labour,
\nWeak ships and spirits steer;
\nThey drive adrift, and whither
\nThey wot not who make thither;
\nBut no such winds blow hither,
\nAnd no such things grow here.<\/p>\n
\nNo heather-flower or vine,
\nBut bloomless buds of poppies,
\nGreen grapes of Proserpine,
\nPale beds of blowing rushes
\nWhere no leaf blooms or blushes
\nSave this whereout she crushes
\nFor dead men deadly wine.<\/p>\n
\nIn fruitless fields of corn,
\nThey bow themselves and slumber
\nAll night till light is born;
\nAnd like a soul belated,
\nIn hell and heaven unmated,
\nBy cloud and mist abated
\nComes out of darkness morn.<\/p>\n
\nHe too with death shall dwell,
\nNor wake with wings in heaven,
\nNor weep for pains in hell;
\nThough one were fair as roses,
\nHis beauty clouds and closes;
\nAnd well though love reposes,
\nIn the end it is not well.<\/p>\n
\nCrowned with calm leaves, she stands
\nWho gathers all things mortal
\nWith cold immortal hands;
\nHer languid lips are sweeter
\nThan love’s who fears to greet her
\nTo men that mix and meet her
\nFrom many times and lands.<\/p>\n
\nShe waits for all men born;
\nForgets the earth her mother,
\nThe life of fruits and corn;
\nAnd spring and seed and swallow
\nTake wing for her and follow
\nWhere summer song rings hollow
\nAnd flowers are put to scorn.<\/p>\n
\nThe old loves with wearier wings;
\nAnd all dead years draw thither,
\nAnd all disastrous things;
\nDead dreams of days forsaken,
\nBlind buds that snows have shaken,
\nWild leaves that winds have taken,
\nRed strays of ruined springs.<\/p>\n
\nAnd joy was never sure;
\nTo-day will die to-morrow;
\nTime stoops to no man’s lure;
\nAnd love, grown faint and fretful,
\nWith lips but half regretful
\nSighs, and with eyes forgetful
\nWeeps that no loves endure.<\/p>\n
\nFrom hope and fear set free,
\nWe thank with brief thanksgiving
\nWhatever gods may be
\nThat no life lives for ever;
\nThat dead men rise up never;
\nThat even the weariest river
\nWinds somewhere safe to sea.<\/p>\n
\nNor any change of light:
\nNor sound of waters shaken,
\nNor any sound or sight:
\nNor wintry leaves nor vernal,
\nNor days nor things diurnal;
\nOnly the sleep eternal
\nIn an eternal night. <\/p>\n