when you are old

Literary analysis. I can never decide if I like it, or if I don't. Most of the time I enjoy it, I think. English essays are really the only ones I can tolerate (history anyone? I didn't think so). But sometimes while reading a school text I miss the meaning because I'm so caught up looking for it. So I've come to the conclusion that sometimes analysis can ruin a good thing. (This extends to life in general kiddies). That was my small slice of wisdom for today, and there are so few I can hardly share them all, so instead I'm going to be self-indulgent.

The analysis of poetry I find troubling, and you would to if you had to write a commentary on Three Lunulae, Truro Museum. Don't get me wrong, I love poetry, but I have so much trouble finding poems that really mean anything (to me at least). And so we get to the point: Today I was perusing my Faber Book of Love Poems. Now, I'm a huge fan of the 'Plagues of Loving' and 'Absences, Doubts and Divisions' sections, but today I was flicking through the 'Love Renounced and Love in Death' section and I stumbled upon a beautiful something.

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with false of true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And placed upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

W.B. Yeats

It seems lovely but sad and I don't completely get it, and I'm not sure if I want to. But I'm disgusted that first thing I noticed was the rhyming A, B, B, A scheme. (and now I'm thinking about Abba)

However, to distract myself, I'd like to assert that revenge and hate are equally good themes to write a poem about. They require a bit more wit. Which is why I'm pleased when I find a love poem that seems to have a deeper meaning. But hate is always a bit of fun.

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunnèd it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore and apple bright:
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole,
When the night had veiled the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

William Blake

hmmm.