Sunday Poetry.

Yesterday I started watching a new biopic series on Emily Dickenson. Lasted five minutes. The wokeness was nauseating: the heroine said she was engaged to death. Not the case, if you understand her life. Though her most famous poem is about that subject. Here is one of the better songs using it as a lyric.

The memory of the saints who have gone before us was part of the church. Godly saints were buried under the stones: Herbert himself is buried under the altar at St Andrews, Nemerton.

Church-monuments.

While that my soul repairs to her devotion,
Here I intombe my flesh,1 that it betimes
May take acquaintance of this heap of dust;
To which the blast of deaths incessant motion,
Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,
Drives all at last. Therefore I gladly trust

My bodie to this school, that it may learn
To spell his elements, and finde his birth
Written in dustie heraldrie and lines;
Which dissolution sure doth best discern,
Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.
These laugh at Jeat and Marble put for signes,

To sever the good fellowship of dust,
And spoil the meetings. What shall point out them,
When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat
To kisse those heaps, which now they have in trust?
Deare flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stemme
And true descent; that when thou shalt grow fat,

And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know,
That flesh is but the glasse, which holds the dust
That measures all our time; which also shall
Be crumbled into dust. Mark here below
How tame these ashes are, how free from lust,
That thou mayst fit thy self against thy fall.

Geroge Herbert, 1633

This is better than Dickinson, though she is more celebrated, as being a Victorian pagan, prefiguring the dysfuctional sterility of the post moderns, the lovers of the vampyre and Gots (two groups that overlap) particularly.

Because I could not stop for Death – (479)

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed Us –
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity –

Emily Dickinson