Elegy

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray


1The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
2 The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
3The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
4 And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

5Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
6 And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
7Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
8 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

9Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
10 The moping owl does to the moon complain
11Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
12 Molest her ancient solitary reign.

13Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
14 Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
15Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
16 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

17The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
18 The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
19The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
20 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

21For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
22 Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
23No children run to lisp their sire's return,
24 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

25Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
26 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
27How jocund did they drive their team afield!
28 How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

29Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
30 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
31Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
32 The short and simple annals of the poor.

33The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
34 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
35Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
36 The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

37Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
38 If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
39Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
40 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

41Can storied urn or animated bust
42 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
43Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
44 Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

45Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
46 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
47Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
48 Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

49But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
50 Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
51Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
52 And froze the genial current of the soul.

53Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
54 The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
55Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
56 And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

57Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
58 The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
59Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
60 Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

61Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
62 The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
63To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
64 And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

65Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
66 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
67Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
68 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

69The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
70 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
71Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
72 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

73Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
74 Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
75Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
76 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

77Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
78 Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
79With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
80 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

81Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
82 The place of fame and elegy supply:
83And many a holy text around she strews,
84 That teach the rustic moralist to die.

85For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
86 This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
87Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
88 Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

89On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
90 Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
91Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
92 Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

93For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
94 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
95If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
96 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

97Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
98 "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
99Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
100 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

101"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
102 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
103His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
104 And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

105"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
106 Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
107Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
108 Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

109"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
110 Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
111Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
112 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

113"The next with dirges due in sad array
114 Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
115Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
116 Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH
117Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
118 A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
119Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
120 And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

121Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
122 Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
123He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
124 He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

125No farther seek his merits to disclose,
126 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
127 (There they alike in trembling hope repose)
128 The bosom of his Father and his God.

This elegy in located in a graveyard as the sun sets and leaves the speaker in darkness. He speaks of the sounds and activity of the night, but how "No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed". Not only will they never be awakened, but, more importantly,they will never be allowed to live the lives they once had. Never will they be granted the ability to love, to play, to go about daily activities that in life seemed so trivial, but in death seem worth so much more. The speaker continues to say how the lives of the dead were spent trying to gain as much physical possessions as possible, and in death it seems as if "Ambition mock their useful toil" and "Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,"two things he wishes were not true. Such is true because "The paths of glory lead but to the grave," all that is gained throughout life can not be taken with one when they die, but is left behind and useless. The speaker realizes that those who are now dead may have lived grand lives, but now they are simply all alike. Elaborate gravestones with praise written upon them will do nothing for the dead, will not be able to bring them back to life, but simply relate back to the once glorious life of it's owner. However, death does suppress the secrets of their past lives.

Ode

Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness, -
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?

Explanation:
Keats' Ode to a Nightingale begins with the speaker becoming drunk. However, he does not drink because he feels “envy of thy happy lot, /But being too happy in thine happiness,” his reasons go beyond envy and instead allow for the speaker to express how he simply wishes to be with the nightingale and as free as it is. The nightingale sings “with full throated ease,” with a freedom that few are able to express throughout their lives. The speaker also wishes to escape the world, perhaps in death, as he expresses: “That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, /And with thee fade away into the forest dim”. Such wishes are his because of what the nightingale has never known, because of the human traits it can never possess and because of the hurt that the speaker himself has felt. Such pain includes the daily “weariness, the fever, and the fret”. The speaker goes on to say that he and the nightingale are so different because of the mortality of humans and the immortality of the bird. While human “youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies,” the nightingale “wast not born for death, immortal Bird!”. However, he realizes being in a drunken state in order to connect with the nightingale is not the answer, he will “Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,” (Bacchus, the Roman god of wine). He also can not see what he imagines to be there, the elements of nature that seem so obvious to him. The speaker comes to the realization and admits to himself that he has been “half in love with easeful Death,” and that “Now more than ever seems it rich to die”. The nightingale's song alone would be comfort enough for the speaker to slip easily into death without pain or worry. While his trance with the nightingale continues and he speaks of death, another realization comes forth when he utters the word “forlorn”. As he states, “Forlorn! the very word is like a bell /To toll me back from thee to my sole self!” The word alone shakes him from the trance an allows for him to think rationally. He realizes that the bird cannot help him escape the troubled and hurtful life that he lives, but instead must fly off leaving no record of his ever having been there. The speaker then questions: “Do I wake or sleep?”. The speaker's attitude towards the nightingale is one of great appreciation. He feels that the nightingale is the only thing, other than perhaps alcohol which he only drinks to feel more connected to the bird, that will ever help him to escape the hardships of his life, will be the only thing to ever give him the happiness and pain free existence that he strives for. Such a deep praise of the nightingale encompasses the basis of an ode.

Whole Text

To a Daughter Leaving Home by Linda Pastan

When I taught you
at eight to ride
a bicycle, loping along
beside you
as you wobbled away
on two round wheels.
my own mouth rounding
in surprise when you pulled
ahead down the curved
path of the park,
I kept waiting
for the thud
of your crash as I
sprinted to catch up,
while you grew
smaller, more breakable
with distance,
pumping, pumping
for your life, screaming
with laughter,
the hair flapping
behind you like a
handkerchief waving
goodbye.

The whole idea of this poem, of growing up and moving on with life is rather sad. There is so much that seems so irrelevant when one is young, like a parent teaching their child to ride a bike, but that is later appreciated so much by both parent and child. Simply growing up is hard for many to deal with, the time can not be regained. It is sad to think of the mother, who as she lets her daughter ride her bike is already seeing her as grown up and leaving.

Whole Text

She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways by William Wordsworth

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
-Fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

This poem is extremely sad, but interesting. It makes one wonder why there was not a single person that "praised" and "loved" her. Wordsworth leaves so much out of the story about the way Lucy's life was that there is a mysterious quality to the poem. She is described as a "violet by a mossy stone". If she is so perfect next to such ugliness, why does no one love her?

External Form

Her I Am by Roger McGough

Here I am
getting on for seventy
and never having gone to work in ladies' underwear

Never run naked at night in the rain
Made love to a girl I'd just met on a plane

At that awkward age now between birth and death
I think of all the outrages unperpetrated
opportunities missed

The dragons chased
The maidens kissed
The wines still untasted
The oceans uncrossed
The fantasies wasted
The mad urges lost

Here I am
as old as Methuselah
was when he was my age
and never having stepped outside for a fight

Crossed on red, pissed rose (or white)
Pretty dull for a poet, I suppose, eh? Quite.

McGough is obviously looking back on missed opportunities in life. He feels as if there is so much that he hasn't done, therefore making him "dull". The list of things he has not done allows for the reader to see that the author is actively thinking through life. That there was not as much contemplation towards the actual activities as there was about the entire meaning of the poem and the meaning of missed opportunities. What is missed does not matter as much as the fact that opportunities were wasted and time can not be replayed.

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Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Thomas explains how every man, the wise, the good, the wild, and the grave, all have one thing in common. When they know that death is near, they look it in the face and keep on living. The author explains how there have always been great people no matter what their greatness is for and that they live fully. To be afraid of death would be absurd and to stop living before death has actually taken hold would not be living. Thomas believes that one should not be "gentle" in life, but rather should "rage". Life is not meant to be lived passively, one must take action into one's own hands if they are to truly appreciate all that life has to offer.

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What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, and Where, and Why by Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

This poem is about remembering someone that the speaker has lost. The speaker explains how there have been many, but that "I have forgotten". Those who have come into her life have not made a large enough impact to even have a single memory of them. However, there is one person that "stirs a quiet pain", that made such an impact that when the speaker is simply lying awake at night, everything makes her think of the one she has lost.