Go, Lovely Rose

this is a poem that dylan recommended me to put on my blog.

so here you go:

(and im soooooooo really really sorry for not posting a poem on saturday)

Go, Lovely Rose
by Edmund Waller

Go, lovely Rose,—
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that’s young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retir’d:
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desir’d,
And not blush so to be admir’d.

Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

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5 thoughts on “Go, Lovely Rose

  1. Dylan says:

    Oh wait if I was going to recommend one I would go with His Confession. It’s long that’s why I did not post it, but if you want my recommendation I would defiantly go with this.

    His Confession (circa 1165)
    by the Archpoet
    translated from the original medieval Latin by Helen Waddell

    Seething over inwardly
    With fierce indignation,
    In my bitterness of soul,
    Hear my declaration.
    I am of one element,
    Levity my matter,
    Like enough a withered leaf
    For the winds to scatter.

    Since it is the property
    Of the sapient
    To sit firm upon a rock,
    it is evident
    That I am a fool, since I
    Am a flowing river,
    Never under the same sky,
    Transient for ever.

    Hither, thither, masterless
    Ship upon the sea,
    Wandering through the ways of air,
    Go the birds like me.
    Bound am I by ne’er a bond,
    Prisoner to no key,
    Questing go I for my kind,
    Find depravity.

    Never yet could I endure
    Soberness and sadness,
    Jests I love and sweeter than
    Honey find I gladness.
    Whatsoever Venus bids
    Is a joy excelling,
    Never in an evil heart
    Did she make her dwelling.

    Down the broad way do I go,
    Young and unregretting,
    Wrap me in my vices up,
    Virtue all forgetting,
    Greedier for all delight
    Than heaven to enter in:
    Since the soul is in me dead,
    Better save the skin.

    Pardon, pray you, good my lord,
    Master of discretion,
    But this death I die is sweet,
    Most delicious poison.
    Wounded to the quick am I
    By a young girl’s beauty:
    She’s beyond my touching? Well,
    Can’t the mind do duty?

    Hard beyond all hardness, this
    Mastering of Nature:
    Who shall say his heart is clean,
    Near so fair a creature?
    Young are we, so hard a law,
    How should we obey it?
    And our bodies, they are young,
    Shall they have no say in’t?

    Sit you down amid the fire,
    Will the fire not burn you?
    To Pavia come, will you
    Just as chaste return you?
    Pavia, where Beauty draws
    Youth with finger-tips,
    Youth entangled in her eyes,
    Ravished with her lips.

    Let you bring Hippolytus,
    In Pavia dine him,
    Never more Hippolytus
    Will the morning find him.
    In Pavia not a road
    But leads to venery
    Nor among its crowding towers
    One to chastity.

    Yet a second charge they bring:
    I’m forever gaming.
    Yea, the dice hath many a time
    Stripped me to my shaming.
    What an’ if the body’s cold,
    If the mind is burning,
    On the anvil hammering,
    Rhymes and verses turning?

    Look again upon your list.
    Is the tavern on it?
    Yea, and never have I scorned,
    Never shall I scorn it,
    Till the holy angels come,
    And my eyes discern them,
    Singing for the dying soul,
    Requiem aeternam.

    For on this my heart is set:
    When the hour is nigh me,
    Let me in the tavern die,
    With a tankard by me,
    While the angels looking down
    Joyously sing o’er me,
    Deus sit propitius
    Huic potatori.

    ‘Tis the fire that’s in the cup
    Kindles the soul’s torches,
    ‘Tis the heart that drenched in wine
    Flies to heaven’s porches.
    Sweeter tastes the wine to me
    In a tavern tankard
    That the watered stuff my Lord
    Bishop has decanted.

    Let them fast and water drink,
    All the poets’ chorus,
    Fly the market and the crowd
    Racketing uproarious.
    Sit in quiet spots and think,
    Shun the tavern’s portal
    Write, and never having lived,
    Die to be immortal.

    Never hath the spirit of
    Poetry descended,
    Till with food and drink my lean
    Belly was distended,
    But when Bacchus lords it in
    My cerebral story,
    Comes Apollo with a rush,
    Fills me with his glory.

    Unto every man his gift.
    Mine was not for fasting.
    Never could I find a rhyme
    With my stomach wasting.
    As the wine is, so the verse:
    ‘Tis a better chorus
    When the landlord hath a good
    Vintage set before us.

    Good my lord, the case is heard,
    I myself betray me,
    And affirm myself to be
    All my fellows say me.
    See, they in thy presence are:
    Let whoe’er hath known
    His own heart and found it clean,
    Cast at me the stone.

    P.S. – I LOVE The Archpoet, everyone should at least ready one of his works. He is somehow smart, irreverent and funny at the same time.

    P.P.S. – It’s ok for forgetting, we are all only demigods.

  2. Dylan says:

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    • Lindsey says:

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      • Dylan says:

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