I remember picking up Blake's Auguries of Innocence and reading it to her last year, both of us hoping for a bit of comfort and enlightenment.
It started very well
"To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour."
But mom was an atheist and a feminist, and so when we hit these lines:
"The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that won't believe.
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbeliever's fright."
"He who mocks the Infant's Faith
Shall be mock'd in Age & Death.
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall ne'er get out."
He just sounds intolerant and aggressive.
And then these lines:
"The Harlot's cry from Street to Street
Shall weave Old England's winding Sheet.
The Winner's Shout, the Loser's Curse,
Dance before dead England's Hearse."
And by the end of the poem, we both ended up wincing with the sourness, the bitterness of Blake's philosophy. It was no use at all. And my mom said:
"I am not sure I like that. Thank you anyway darling."
And picked up her copy of the God Delusion, by Dawkins.
In contrast, I am sure she would have loved the Edward Thomas poem Carol Rumens discusses on her poetry blog. The quality of the poems have percolate through. At last. The first poem reads like a moving epitaph. It's a loving natural vision of his home. The poem reminds me of the Whitman poem my mom chose for her own epitaph. The poem from the Leaves of Grass.
Rain
Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into this solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here, I pray that none whom once I loved
Is dying tonight, or lying still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in pain or thus in sympathy
Helpless among the living and the dead,
Like a cold water among broken reeds,
Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,
Like me who have no love which this wild rain
Has not dissolved except the love of death,
If love it be towards what is perfect and
Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.
It started very well
"To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour."
But mom was an atheist and a feminist, and so when we hit these lines:
"The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that won't believe.
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbeliever's fright."
"He who mocks the Infant's Faith
Shall be mock'd in Age & Death.
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall ne'er get out."
He just sounds intolerant and aggressive.
And then these lines:
"The Harlot's cry from Street to Street
Shall weave Old England's winding Sheet.
The Winner's Shout, the Loser's Curse,
Dance before dead England's Hearse."
And by the end of the poem, we both ended up wincing with the sourness, the bitterness of Blake's philosophy. It was no use at all. And my mom said:
"I am not sure I like that. Thank you anyway darling."
And picked up her copy of the God Delusion, by Dawkins.
In contrast, I am sure she would have loved the Edward Thomas poem Carol Rumens discusses on her poetry blog. The quality of the poems have percolate through. At last. The first poem reads like a moving epitaph. It's a loving natural vision of his home. The poem reminds me of the Whitman poem my mom chose for her own epitaph. The poem from the Leaves of Grass.
Rain
Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into this solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here, I pray that none whom once I loved
Is dying tonight, or lying still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in pain or thus in sympathy
Helpless among the living and the dead,
Like a cold water among broken reeds,
Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,
Like me who have no love which this wild rain
Has not dissolved except the love of death,
If love it be towards what is perfect and
Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.
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