Done to the rhyme scheme and meter of John Donne's 'A Valediction: of Weeping'.
Today, the sun
(who, now that we incline to him loves more,
and less obliquely need his ardor pour)
busies the new-leaved trees his fires light on,
in sky of blue,
faith to renew,
that winter scarfing cast, the emperor wears
hardly a haze of dissolved cloud, yet bears
himself imperially, as not at all caught unawares.
We soon forget,
when we accuse the sun of forsaking,
it was we who turned our face, betraying,
thrusting Antipodes there, in our stead.
Now we relent,
are most intent
to be the foremost in his generous beams
(vitamin D desiring photon streams);
close up our eyes to idolize; in his kiss dream our dreams.
Blackbirds sing clear;
and in this busy time repair old nests,
gather what food they can (they take requests),
hop down our mossy paths, approach us near.
Equinox sweet
yanks ground from feet;
such changes may coming April adorn,
from tangled boughs the common veil be torn.
Blossoms transfigure our dreaming; waking we inhale dawn.
......................
Here, I'll give you the Donne poem. It's on a deeper theme (one I don't want to touch on at present) and it is a far far better poem than mine - I just borrowed its jacket. Media: Some guy on YouTube reading the poem, not too well - though he obviously likes it.
A Valediction: of Weeping
Let me pour forth
My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here,
For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,
And by this mintage they are something worth,
For thus they be
Pregnant of thee;
Fruits of much grief they are, emblems of more,
When a tear falls, that thou falls which it bore,
So thou and I are nothing then, when on a diverse shore.
On a round ball
A workman that hath copies by, can lay
An Europe, Afric, and an Asia,
And quickly make that, which was nothing, all;
So doth each tear
Which thee doth wear,
A globe, yea world, by that impression grow,
Till thy tears mix'd with mine do overflow
This world; by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so.
O more than moon,
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,
Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear
To teach the sea what it may do too soon;
Let not the wind
Example find,
To do me more harm than it purposeth;
Since thou and I sigh one another's breath,
Whoe'er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other's death.
YOU ARE READING
The Singing Season
PoetryThe Singing Season. That's the spring-time. You'll also like other MajorSeventh poetry collections - and there are so many to choose from.
