Byron
SO, we'll go no more
a-roving
So late into the
night,
Though the heart be still as
loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its
sheath,
And the soul wears
out the breast,
And the heart must pause to
breathe,
And love itself
have rest.
Though the night was made for
loving,
And the day returns
too soon,
Yet we'll go no more
a-roving
By the light of the
moon.
Francis Thompson
* For the field is full of
shades as I near a shadowy coast,
* And a ghostly batsman plays
to the bowling of a ghost,
* And I look through my tears
on a soundless-clapping host
* As the run stealers flicker
to and fro,
* To and fro:
* O my Hornby and my Barlow
long ago !
The story goes that “Not long before his death and long after he had watched
Hornby and Barlow bat at Old Trafford, Thompson was invited to watch Lancashire
play Middlesex at Lord's. As the day of the match grew closer, Thompson became
increasingly nostalgic. At the end, he did not go for the match, but sat at
home and wrote At Lord's.
The original match in 1878 ended in a draw…”
I was reminded of both of these
poems the other day (the second is a fragment of a longer poem) and remembered that I wanted to write
about this. About the stark feeling of having done everything worthwhile that
you are ever going to do. Good memories are good, but they shouldn't remind you
too clearly that they are now only memories. These lines do.
There are many things I will never do again, or
never do at all. And there are many things I will do, if I choose to or am
lucky enough. It is these last that are
the future, that make the present worth prolonging, that cause optimism,
happiness even. And memory is good, even memories of what is gone forever.
But there is a finality about these lines. The
simplicity of the metres, the bareness of the images, the lack of any contrast
with a worthwhile present, lead to a feeling that what is good is lost. And
perhaps was never truly had.
Just poetry, and I like it. It provokes an
emotional response, which is one of the things I like in writing. But don’t read them under
the influence.
3 comments:
Byron's brings one near to tears; as does Clough's Fear Not The Struggle Nought Availeth. Odd how both failure and success (or rescue) can make one weep. I think we live as long as we are between the two.
And eventually memory is kind, it allows the pain to pass, at least at a conscious level. So many English writers and musicians do nostalgia as well if not better than anyone else. I happened to have this version of a great Bob Dylan song playing when I started reading your post and Sackerson's insightful comment. It was apt, I thought:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KyTHRg8DqH0&list=LL6tnVJ1FSg2LmKpmzFdsM6Q&index=11
Thank you both for your comments, and for the references, which contribute to broadening the ideas suggested by the lines I quoted. Clough's poem introduces a very powerful element of hope, or at least an appeal to belief in the possibility of hope.
I didn't know the Dylan song, but it is apt, as you say. There are some memories which are not sad, they are good in themselves, even when what is remembered is gone.
There is a very long list that could be made of poems which address diffetet ways of remembering, and all the emotions memory can bring. Hmm. I think I have work to do.
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