The Romance of Churches, Chapels, but not so much Cathedrals...

St. George's Chapel (inside) and Monument of Princess Charlotte above... St. Bernard's school and the grand staircase above ^

I often wonder why I love churches. I am pretty sure now that it is not some inherent religious desire I visit them and admire them so. It is still a puzzlement but this snippet of a poem I found in a book- "The Romance of Saint George's Chapel, Windsor Castle"-hits the nail on the head.

In the elder days of Art,
Builders wrought with greatest care

Each minute and unseen part;

For the Gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well,

Both the unseen and the seen;

Make the house, where Gods may dwell,

Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Well, the book only contains the first stanza, but I looked up the rest and it just captures it perfectly. It is called "The Builders" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It is a rather nice poem, but these are by far the two best stanzas.

St. George's Chapel really does just take your breath away. It is just that history, the adoration and loving care given to this building, a living monument to devotion, faith and hope. What a marvellous thing, eh?

One of the few great things about my secondary school was the 'olde worlde' part of it, the part that used to be an old manor house with its own private chapel attached, the crooked steps up to the history rooms, the terrifyingly steep spiral staircases and the huge, high-ceiling, shuttered windows. The chapel was beautiful, except when it came to the 'whole year gatherings' where we would be forced to sing, both badly and embarrassingly alongside our peers, and kneel, and pray and then get back up again. I am definitely irreverent!!

Hmm... anyhow I am deviating. Apart from the horrors of singing that the walls no doubt still harbour, its the sanctuary, the love and the dedication put into this small section of the building that is breath-taking. Every time I step inside a chapel/church (not so much Cathedral- that seems to be built more with a flair to show off and be impressive but impersonal. However there are some exceptions...) I miss that sense of certainty, of omnipotence of a greater being, that these fellows who built the chapels, who commissioned them. They may not have been devout or stuck to all the rules in the bible but it was a way of life... few said that they didn't believe in anything.

Today, as the news keeps telling us, Britain is falling apart. The ironic thing is they have said this for hundreds of years... On working in the Chapel archives and Chapter Library, the number of tracts, sermons and books I have found on how the Popish threat is sure to ruin the country and how Protestantism is sure to come to a sticky end, and how if we disobey the bible we are going straight to hell. Society would fall down without these rules they thought. It makes me wonder whether they may have been right. I am a keen example of how irreverent a society the British nation is. However it is a depressing route I shall forgo this evening...

I am sure you will be glad of that.

I conclude this "half" blog "half" rant "half" pondering... well maybe that should be in thirds?! with what Blackburne of "The Romance of St George's Chapel" says:

"Let worshippers and sightseers catch the message that rings out from these stones, laid so gracefully and carried up so high; let them take this message home and try to live it out in their lives, in order that that which was once a pious dream may become a reality."

I may not be a believer but surely this is why I wrote my blog? That the comfort, safety, awe and grandeur of the building spoke to me... I guess I must have 'taken the message home' in some form or manner! Hmmm... maybe I won't go to hell after all...

The World of the Victorian Naturalist

On pondering Old Fogey's comments on Christina Rossetti's poem in my previous blog, it come to mind of my friend's (Slarky) art work. For her degree, where she "only got a Desmond" as she put it (2:2)- outragous if you ask me!!- she did this piece on the "Victorian Naturalist". It is amazing, and I am duly posting it here.

This is what she says about it:

"THE WORLD OF THE VICTORIAN NATURALIST.

Using the 150th anniversary of the publication of Darwin’s The Origin of Species as a starting point, I wanted to visually explore the idea of the Victorian Naturalist and the paraphernalia associated with it, to show to what extent Victorian naturalists were harming the environments and species which they sought to learn about with their obsessive collecting for both acedemic and decorative purposes."

Old Fogey says that the poem instructs us what to do, but that Christina may not have followed it herself, which is entirely possible. However, I said that her sentiment in the poem is completely at odds with her time. The Victorians, as Slarky says, were harming the environments around them for knowledge and decoration. Even if Rossetti didn't always avoid squatting the odd fly or squashing the odd spider, she voiced an opinion little held and even less liked.

Check out her website here: http://www.charlotteslark.co.uk/index.html

POEMS FOR CHILDREN

OK, so we probably know that I like Christina Rossetti's poems A LOT. Like a lot, not as much as Emily Dickinson, but a lot right?

I was in a charity shop last week and bought a 1969 copy of Christina Rossetti's poetry "for young readers" called Doves and Pomegranates. It is a really nice book. It is the sort of book that I would have loved as a child. At primary school we were always having a poetry day or something so I had this one book of poetry and I always HAD to pick something out of this book as it was the only one I had. It served me well, but by year 6 it was a little immature and I had used all the good ones! This book I am going to keep for my kids (if I have any) and they can use this book to death too.

HURT NO LIVING THING

Hurt no living thing:
Ladybird, nor butterfly,
Nor moth with dusty wing,
Nor cricket chirping cheerily,
Nor grasshopper so light of leap,
Nor dancing gnat, nor beetle fat,
Nor harmless worms that creep.

> This was particularly apt as I was lying in the bath reading this poem when I noticed a spider *eugh!* scuttle in through the slightly ajar window and I was wondering whether to kill it, capture it and throw it out the window to certain death or to just let it go but watch it wearily.

I watched it wearily for ten minutes before I couldn't take it any longer and got out the bath. And the water was still warm and the book unfinished. What a very rude spider that still lives.

"I Am Not Yours" by Sara Teasdale

I am not yours, not lost in you,

Not lost, although I long to be

Lost as a candle lit at noon,

Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still

A spirit beautiful and bright,

Yet I am I, who long to be

Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love -- put out

My senses, leave me deaf and blind,

Swept by the tempest of your love,

A taper in a rushing wind.

The conflict between personal strength and the need/want to be completely enveloped by love is something that I think many late Victorian/Edwardian women felt. It had something to do with how they were brought up in the Victorian period (and yes, although Sara was american, the same moral standard applied in the U.S.). With the beginning of the women's movement and the liberating experience it produced for many middle class women there was a vacancy for how to act and a way to channel one's feelings. It had been a problem for a long time, but with changes like this occurring it is hard to know how to adapt. I like this poem because of the way she is battling with herself, her emotions versus her self-control.

Sarah Trevor Teasdale (08/08/1884- 29/01/1933)
Born in St. Louis, Missouri. Teasdale was always very frail, and caught diseases easily. For most of her life, she had a nurse companion that took care of her. Teasdale grew up in a sheltered atmosphere. She was the youngest child. Because of that, she was spoiled and waited on like a princess. She never had to do normal chores, like make her bed, or do the dishes. She was known to have described herself as “a flower in a toiling world”. Because she was so sickly, she was homeschooled until she was nine. She never had communication with her peers. Teasdale grew up around adults. She was forced to amuse heself with stories and things that she made up in her own lonesome world. When Teasdale was ten, she had the first communication with her peers. Her parents sent her to Miss Ellen Dean Lockwood's school for boys and girls. When she was fourteen, she went to Mary Institute. She didn't graduate there, but switched to Hosmer Hall when she was fifteen. There, she began to put the thoughts and dreams that amused her as a girl onto paper. Thus, she wrote her first poem. Teasdale's first published poem was "Reedy's Mirror", and it was published in a local newspaper. Her first collection, "Sonnets to Duse and Other Poems", was published in 1907. In 1911, her second collection, "Sonnets to Duse and Other Poems" was published. She published many other collections including "Rivers to the Sea", "Love Songs", "Flame and Shadow", "Dark of the Moon", "Stars To-night", and finally, "Strange Victory".
In 1913 Teasdale fell in love with poet Vachel Lindsay. He wrote her daily love letters, but she ended up marrying Ernst Filsinger in 1914 when she was 30; he was a rich business man. Teasdale and Lindsay remained friends throughout their lives. In 1918 her poetry collection Love Songs won three awards. Teasdale was a product of her upbringing and was never able to experience the passion that she expressed in her poetry. She was not happy in her marriage, becoming divorced in 1929 and lived the rest of her life only for her poetry. In 1933, Teasdale caught chronic pneumonia and it weakened her not only in body but also in mind and spirit. No longer able to see the beauty in simple things, Teasdale committed suicide by overdosing on sleeping pills at age 48 in New York. Her final book of poetry was published that year. Her friend Lindsay had committed suicide two years earlier.

One need not be a Chamber-to be Haunted-
One need not be a House-
The Brain had Corridors- surpassing
Material Place-

Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting
External Ghost
Than its interior Confronting-
That Cooler Host.

Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,
The Stones a'chase-
Than Unarmed, one's a'self encounter-
In lonesome Place-

Ourself behind ourself, concealed-
Should startle most-
Assassin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror's least.

The Body- borrows a Revolver-
He bolts the Door-
O'erlooking a superior spectre-
Or More-


Why is it you read something once and then ages later it comes back to bear some meaning on your life at that particular moment when it occurs to you to remember it? I immediately took to this poem, one of the first ever Emily Dickinson poems I ever came across, but today it came back to me... I uttered the words under my breath and I thought.... where did that come from? WEIRD! heehee... Anyway, this poem makes me feel, slightly oddly, better... I guess on days like this I know how Emily Dickinson felt. However, no more dwelling... up and on as I have already said! Get the stone rolling...

"Wine that turned to Vinegar"

To have loved, to have kissed
And- oh, God!- to have missed
The completion of Love!
To have turned to one
As the only sun
In one's sky above
And to find that his beams
Had merely in dreams
Their radiant light.
What so deep as the woe
Of those who did know
The joy of the height.
A more powerful thing
Than the broken wing
Of a bird that soared,
Is one driven by fate
To return with hate
Where she once adored.



Marie Stopes... of course! 1909

After Death

Christina Rossetti (1830-1894), contemporaneous with Emily Dickinson, was very similar to her in many ways. Like Emily, Christina never married but she did have her own social circle. However Rossetti did not recede from society like Emily Dickinson did, but Christina did have mental problems following from the nervous breakdown she had when she was 14. Both poets were very religious in their own ways; Emily a Calvinist and Christina was part of the Anglo-Catholic movement. But most importantly they both feared their death towards the end of their lives and reflected this in their poems...

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept

And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may

Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,

Where though the lattice ivy-shawdows crept.

He leaned above me, thinking that I slept

And could not hear him; but I heard him say:

"Poor child, poor child:" as he turned away

Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.

He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold

That hid my face, or take my ahnd in his,

Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:

He did not love me living; but once dead

He pitied me; and very sweet it is

To know he still is warm though I am cold.

I heard a Fly buzz- when I died-

The Stillness in the Room

Was like the Stillness in the Air-

Between the Heaves of Storm-

The Eyes around- had wrung them dry-

And Breathes were gathering firm

For that last Onset- when the king

Be witnessed-in the Room-

I willed away my Keepsakes- Signed away

What portion of me be

Assignable- and then it was

There interposed a Fly-

With Blue- uncertain stumbling Buzz-

Between the light- and me-

And then the Window failed- and then
I could not see to see-

(See here for one of Emily's other poems about her death)

I prefer Emily Dickinson's style of poetry better than Christina's formal sonnet layout. Traditional and over used perhaps... but Emily's use of the dash works a lot better. Her fear of not being able to see into the world of death: "could not see to see" unnerves us because we can't see either because Emily doesn't. the dash leaves us hanging. There is no definite ending. Christina's poem ends on a full stop, which shown next to Emily's dash really puts a definite end to life. It is effective. There is no room for discussion. But I think it would not be as effective if it was not shown side by side next to Emily's poem. Anyways, that is what i think...

A solemn thing- it was- I said-

A solemn thing- it was- I said-
A woman- white- to be-
And wear- if God should count me fit-
Her blameless mystery-

A hallowed thing- to drop a life-
Into the purple well-
Too plummetless- that it return-
Eternity- until-

I pondered how the bliss would look-
And would it feel as big-
When I could take it in my hand-
As hovering-seen through fog-

And then- the size of this "small" life-
The Sages- call it small-
Swelled- like Horizons- in my vest-
And I sneered- softly- "small"!

This peom, like many of Emily Dickinson's, is not to be read on one level. Is it to do with marriage? Highly likely. Religion? Most probably. Death? Again, yes. Each line can be read to prove each theme and this makes Emily Dickinson special. You can read a poem and it mean one thing one time, but the other time it would mean the other thing to you- it is a poem for different moods and since I seem to be on a religious rant at the moment follow this poem along the theme of religion.

By the way I think death is probably the primary interpretation, but argue with me on that as you will. I do! "If God should count me fit" is a definite link to Emily's issue with Calvinism. It was very much at the forefront of her religious insecurity. Calvinist believe that one is predetermined to go to heaven before they are born and no matter what they do on earth can really make much difference. We are inherently good/bad from birth. Emily is very insecure about her own death and whether she would get into heaven. Another link to Emily's thoughts and how this poem represents her life and feelings is that "a woman- white- to be-" refers to Emily being dressed in white all the time when she withdrew from society and become a recluse.

"Hallowed" and "Eternity" all hint at a religious connotation. "Purple" is an ecclesiastical and royal colour. "Plummetless" and "Eternity" make death seem a scary, long drawn out thing. "I pondered how bliss would look" shows that Emily is wondering what heaven looks like. "Seen-through fog-" refers to St. Peter's belief of the 'mist of life' (or something- my bible studies are rusty). "It" to me (in the last stanza) is her life. To her, life is not small. It is everything. The Sages- possibly the saints, angels, God, etc- it is just a small life, but from a personal point of view it is everything.

So, am I right or wrong? I don't know. Perhaps when I meet Emily "in the fair schoolroom of the sky" I will ask what she meant!

(I shall know why- when Time is over-
And I have ceased to wonder why-
Christ will explain each separate anguish
In the fair schoolroom of the sky-

He will tell me what "peter" promised-
And I- for wonder at his woe-
I shall forget the drop of Anguish
That scalds me now- that scalds me now!)

For other poetry on women in marriage and also marriage blurred with religious service as a nun (possibly) see here.

For the Young

I keep asking
"For the things I desire,
You tell me I'm selfish
And "playing with fire"-
It is hard to believe
I am selfish and vain,
My desires seem so real
And my needs seem so sane,
And yet You are wiser..."

This poem attracted me. My penultimate blog is an exact example of this... I am indeed selfish, but thankfully as it is a blog I shan't take it so seriously. However, just something to remind me that my woes and wishes, and desires and dreads are relatively minor. This is a prayer/poem. Insert where I wrote "I keep asking"- "Dear God, I keep praying..." How funny that it struck almost as if someone had punched me on the nose. It made me feel bad. Then I remembered i didn't necessarily believe in this and settled into an awkward feeling somewhat placated by a defensive mechanism that blocks religious turmoil within.

Again another belated teenage angst issue on the question of God that has beleaguered the philosophers for decades, generations and centuries, and by no means do I believe that I can find the answer to which many others have tried... did they fail or succeed I suspect should be left to another blog! I am certainly in no mood to philosophise today!

Poem entitled "A Prayer for the Young and Lovely" by Helen Steiner Rice, "Heart Gifts". At least she thinks our selfishness is "lovely" :D

It is the only road...

Believe not those who say
The upward path is smooth.
Lest thou shouldst stumble in the way.
And faint before the truth.

It is the only road
Unto the realms of joy:
But her who seeks that blest abode
Must all his pwers employ.

Anne Bronte

I found this poem on a bookmark within the pages of one of the books I recently dug out of the shed after we packed a lot of our possessions away when our extension was being built. It was in a book of poems owned once by my nanna, and now by my mum. They can be very religious in tone, but these poems are little gems that make me wish I had a deeper conviction that something wider out there exists than what an agnostic-cum-atheist believes. This poem does not exude a high-toned, preaching voice that tells us we are condemned to hell, but to get to heaven is not easy and we must strive with all our efforts to enter this "blest abode". The conviction of what must be done, the true belief expressed in this lone, short poem shows me how faith really did exist. It did for my nanna, it does in some manner for my mother and today? The next generation? Who knows...

"Hope" is the thing with feathers-

"Hope" is the thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul-
And sings the tune without the words-
And never stops- at all-

And sweetest- in the Gale- is heard-
And sore must be the storm-
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm-

I've heard it in the chillest land-
And on the strangest Sea-
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb- of Me.


A little thing to keep us going over the iniment looming winter. A sweet little poem.

Riddle by Emily Dickinson

Can you guess what she is describing?

Blazing in Gold and quenching in Purple

Leaping like Leopards to the Sky

Then at the feet of the old Horizon

Laying her spotted Face to die

Stooping as low as the Otter's Window

Touching the Roof and tinting the Barn

Kissing her Bonnet to the Meadow

And the Juggler of the Day is gone

A Fan or Foe?: Emily Dickinson on Marriage

Old Fogey and I had a bit of a debate about Emily Dickinson a while back about her attitude to marriage (see here). Her feelings towards marriage vary from poem to poem offering a controversial and a confusing narrative, which means it is difficult for the reader to get a definitive answer on whether she was a fan or a foe of marriage. Dickinson's "I'm 'Wife'" poem, which sparked the debate has already been discussed, so check out the OF's blog on it! Needless to say it seems this poem portrays Emily as unfavorable to the idea of marriage, that it confines women to a title, but she also intimates that after girlhood, what else is there for a woman but marriage? OF believes behind this bitterness there is an element of accommodation, that she would not have minded being married

Now, to further Emily Dickinson's confusing narrative further on the state of marriage I will look at a few of her other poem...

So to commence: -

Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile the winds
To a heart in port,
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!

This I think has more to do with love, passion and sex rather than marriage, despite it rarely being distinguished separately in Emily's era from marriage. For a woman to describe these sentiments is not unique but definitely rebellious!

This poem, an extended metaphor of sex, is relatively easy to get to grips with. "Might I but moor//To-night in thee!" cannot be mistaken for anything that talking about carnal knowledge. Still, I think the shortness of it shows passion, and of course it is Dickinson's passion. The short outburst of longing for it shows a regret of a sort. Dickinson's 'feminist' stance, so often against marriage, here shows that she is not against men or about the 'luxury' of love. In fact she is rather for love, shown by her mimicking Keats and the themes of Romanticism in "I died for Beauty-but was scarce".

I think for Dickinson marriage was not desirable, but the idea of love she seems to regret more than anything in her poetry.

In her poem "How many times have these low feet staggered-" the image of the "Indolent Housewife" dying in a state of drudgery does not show the role of women as housewives positively and in turn sneers at marriage for confinign women to this role.

How many times have these low feet staggered-

Only the soldered mouth can tell-

Try- can you stir the awful rivet-

Try- can you lift the hasps of steel!

Stroke the cool forehead- hot so often-

Lift- if you care- the listless hair-

Handle the adamantine fingers

Never a thimble- more- shall wear-

Buzz the dull flies- on the chamber window-

Brave- shins the sun through the freckled pane-

Fearless- the cobweb swings from the ceiling-

Indolent Housewife- in Daisies- lain!

I love the imagery of this poem- the typical imagery of sewing to define a domestic setting and housewifery: "Never a thimble-more-shall wear-". The creepiest image Dickinson uses throughout her poetry is the fly (or flies) in this case. They seem to represent death (see "I heard a fly buzz- when I died"). Here they also help to show the house as falling in disrepair after the death of the housewife- the flies at the window, the window dirty or "freckled" and the cobwebs boldly dangling from the ceiling. It almost shows the limits of her work but also that the man won't or can't do the work she did.

He put the Belt around my life-

I heard the Buckle snap-

And turned away, imperial,

My Lifetime folding up-

Deliberate, as a Duke would do

A Kingdom's Title Deed-

Henceforth, a Dedicated sort-

A Member of the Cloud.

Yet not too far to come at call-

And do the little Toils

That make the Circuit of the Rest-

And deal occasional smiles

To lives that stoop to notice mine-

And kindly ask it in-

Whose invitation, know you not?

For whom I must decline?

This triples up almost on themes; it encompasses marriage, class and also possibly a commitment to God. In the case of the first and last idea, patriarchs at the helm controlling what the woman should do. It is ending the woman's life : "My Lifetime folding up-" by marrying for a "Kingdom's Title Deed" and also for religious reasons her life would fold up, the "Kingdom's Title Deed" being instead for heaven rather than actual material wealth. The sharp violent sound of snap on the second line after "He put the Belt around my life" is jolting and draws attention to the woman being controlled, inferior and unable to escape. I prefer the primary idea that thios poem is more to do with marriage than religion, though a dual meaning is rather more likely.

The "He", the first word, the condemning word illustrates where the blame lies, who is being discussed and sets the tone for the rest of the poem. The woman must meekly follow his lead and do as her social status requires ("make the Circuit of the Rest").

Another more disturbing poem Emily Dickinson penned was: -

He fumbles at your Soul

As Players at the keys

Before they drop full music on-

He stuns you by degrees-

Prepares your brittle nature

For the Ethereal Blow

By fainter Hammers-further heard-

Then nearer- Then so slow

Your Breath has time to straighten-

Your Brain- to bubble Cool-

Deals- One- imperial- Thunderbolt-

That scalps your naked Soul-

When Winds take Forests in their Paws-

The Universe- is still-

This poem is again about sex, but I think this time it definitely more violent than the soft passionate lulling of the sea imagery in "Wild Nights! Wild Nights!" This poem is about rape crafted by the aggressive vocabulary selected: "fumbles", "Drop", "stun", "Ethereal Blow", "scalps" and also the line "Deals-One-imperial-Thunderbolt-". The dashes aid the dramatic effect and adds to rather unpleasant reading I think. Again this poem starts with a "He" and deliberately shows the culprit: of course, a man. In this case I am unsure whether it is a husband, but it seems likely. It was typical for this 'without love sex' to be considered within marriage. "Wild Nights!" mentions no "He" in the poem. It infers that a man is present to be "moored" in her harbour, but the lack of presence of a gender allows Dickinson to praise passion, romance and love of its own accord rather than marriage and the conjugal duties accorded to the husband.

So, to conclude... Emily Dickinson is a fan of love and passion but a foe of marriage. Her circumastances in her own life had obviously made her bitter but at a time when she was socially graded by her status, married or unmarried, she would have felt keenly that she had no role in society. Unlike today where women can have a role within and without marriage shows how time has changed. It also makes it hard for us to understand Emily, but essentially we can summise that Emily missed to closeness and happiness love and romance gave but was not sorry to be unmarried. Marriage, she thought, would not allow her to conceive of her passionate ideals of love. Whether she was right, I am unsure, but she penned some fabulous poetry!

I'm "Wife"- I've finished that-

I'm "Wife"- I've finished that-
That other state-
I'm Czar-I'm "Woman" now-
It's safer so-

How odd the Girl's life looks-
Behind this soft Eclipse-
I think that earth feels so
To folks in Heaven- now-

This being comfort-then-
That other kind- was pain-
But why compare?
I'm "Wife"! Stop there!

This is a really good example of Emily Dickinson really digging her heels into the side of the proverbial social stallion. The labels and titles given to women ("Wife") and to contrast it to what a woman can never be and a man can ("Czar") demonstrates this with the sharp puncturing dashes, capital letters and exclamation marks at the end. The unequality of man and woman is clearly shown as well by the change the woman goes through from childhood: "girl" to womanhood: "Wife" characterised by an "Eclipse". The sarcasm is very obvious and the last line "I'm "Wife"! Stop there!" almost sounds like a man's voice ordering her.

Not a very upbeat poem, I am sorry... but it is the one I can almost say from the top of my head. Gawd love A-Level English; one of the classes where I felt I really truly learnt the most (she was a great teacher to was Miss Watson!!) See? You can sometime remember what you were taught in school!

Civilisation-spurns-the Leopard!

Civilisation-spurns-the Leopard!
Was the Leopard- bold?
Deserts-never rebuked her Satin-
Ethiop- her Gold-
Tawny- her Customs-
Spotted- her Dun Gown-
This was the Leopard’s nature- Signor-
Need- a keeper-frown?

Pity- The Pard-that left her Asia-
Memories- of Palm-
Cannot be stifled-with Narcotic-
Nor suppressed-with Balm-

What is it about? Good question. In my opinion, not that it always counts for much, I think it is on the first level about nature and obviously a caged leopard, but the fact that 'the Pard' is a her is ver revealing. Dickinson wrote many poems about women being confined to roles, labels and by men so it seems ideal that the 'Signor' be the keeper and the Leopard be the woman. On a more positive note, the last stanza states that she will never be 'suppressed- with Balm'. Indeed. Keeper watch out!

Because I could not stop for Death

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labour, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

I truly love Emily Dickinson; a wacky half feminist, half doubting religious nut who became a recluse and wrote poetry of love, death, nature and womanhood (all the things that are important of course!!) and I completely fell in love with her. Trust me, if there ever was a poet for every occasion, this woman had it! This one is a bit more morose and serious, but I promise the next one will be demonstrating the wackier side...

Explaining my blogger name

I would like to say I came across this poem, from which I have taken my blogger name, either from some academic study, or just through a love of poetry. In fact, as a film muncher, I came across a small quote of it in the film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which again takes its own name from this poem. Kirtsen Dunst delivers the lines (ironically in the 'spotless mind' state not fully appreciating the situation she is actually in when quoting it of which I am sure Pope would appreciate! I won't give too much away for those who haven't seen it, but SEE IT!):
"How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!"
And this grabbed me. After the film had ended I looked up the quote and found it had come from the poem Eloisa to Abelard by Alexander Pope. After reading a lot of Pope's work in my study of satire at school, the best topic I have ever studied at school, I was surprised to find a) I had never heard of it, b) that it was such a tragic poem, not his usual satirical prodding poetry. It is erotic, sensual and passionate to be sure, but the gloom of tragedy prevails. It was based on a true story in the 12th century, which saw a revival of interest in the late 17th and early 18th centuries. I think the main attraction of this poem for me is the idea of real, long lasting love albeit tragic and melancholy in tone (rather like in Persuasion another favourite of mine, which has a far happier ending!). Here is the poem anyway...
In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns;
What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love!--From Abelard it came,
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.

Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd.
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies:
O write it not, my hand--the name appears
Already written--wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.

Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmov'd, and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain.

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.
I tremble too, where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,
Led through a sad variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame,
There died the best of passions, love and fame.

Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away;
And is my Abelard less kind than they?
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,
Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r;
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief.
Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid;
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires,
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.

Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame,
When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name;
My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry day,
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.
Guiltless I gaz'd; heav'n listen'd while you sung;
And truths divine came mended from that tongue.
From lips like those what precept fail'd to move?
Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love.
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,
Nor wish'd an Angel whom I lov'd a Man.
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;
Nor envy them, that heav'n I lose for thee.

How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said,
Curse on all laws but those which love has made!
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies,
Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,
August her deed, and sacred be her fame;
Before true passion all those views remove,
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
The jealous God, when we profane his fires,
Those restless passions in revenge inspires;
And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,
Who seek in love for aught but love alone.
Should at my feet the world's great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all:
Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove;
No, make me mistress to the man I love;
If there be yet another name more free,
More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
Oh happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature, law:
All then is full, possessing, and possess'd,
No craving void left aching in the breast:
Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.
This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be)
And once the lot of Abelard and me.

Alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise!
A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!
Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,
Her poniard, had oppos'd the dire command.
Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;
The crime was common, common be the pain.
I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd,
Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest.

Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,
When victims at yon altar's foot we lay?
Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,
When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?
As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,
The shrines all trembl'd, and the lamps grew pale:
Heav'n scarce believ'd the conquest it survey'd,
And saints with wonder heard the vows I made.
Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,
Not on the Cross my eyes were fix'd, but you:
Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;
Those still at least are left thee to bestow.
Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie,
Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd;
Give all thou canst--and let me dream the rest.
Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize,
With other beauties charm my partial eyes,
Full in my view set all the bright abode,
And make my soul quit Abelard for God.

Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r.
From the false world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desert smil'd,
And Paradise was open'd in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father's stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n,
Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n:
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
In these lone walls (their days eternal bound)
These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noonday night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light;
Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,
And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears,
'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others' pray'rs I try,
(O pious fraud of am'rous charity!)
But why should I on others' pray'rs depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move,
And all those tender names in one, thy love!
The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,
The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills,
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to rest the visionary maid.
But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws
A death-like silence, and a dread repose:
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.

Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
Sad proof how well a lover can obey!
Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;
And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain,
Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,
And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine.

Ah wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain,
Confess'd within the slave of love and man.
Assist me, Heav'n! but whence arose that pray'r?
Sprung it from piety, or from despair?
Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence,
Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis sure the hardest science to forget!
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,
And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how distinguish penitence from love?
Unequal task! a passion to resign,
For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine.
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain--do all things but forget.
But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd;
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself--and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;"
Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Daemons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake--no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I say;
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!
Alas, no more--methinks we wand'ring go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,
Where round some mould'ring tower pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.

For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain
A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain;
Thy life a long, dead calm of fix'd repose;
No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.
Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,
Or moving spirit bade the waters flow;
Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n,
And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n.

Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread?
The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.
Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves;
Ev'n thou art cold--yet Eloisa loves.
Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn
To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.

What scenes appear where'er I turn my view?
The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue,
Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.
I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,
Thy image steals between my God and me,
Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear,
With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear.
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,
And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.

While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye,
While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul:
Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart;
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes
Blot out each bright idea of the skies;
Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;
Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs;
Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;
Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!

No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;
Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!)
Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu!
Oh Grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair!
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!
Fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky!
And faith, our early immortality!
Enter, each mild, each amicable guest;
Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!

See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,
Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.
In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,
From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound.
"Come, sister, come!" (it said, or seem'd to say)
"Thy place is here, sad sister, come away!
Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,
Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid:
But all is calm in this eternal sleep;
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep,
Ev'n superstition loses ev'ry fear:
For God, not man, absolves our frailties here."

I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs,
Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs.
Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,
Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow:
Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay,
And smooth my passage to the realms of day;
See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll,
Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!
Ah no--in sacred vestments may'st thou stand,
The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,
Present the cross before my lifted eye,
Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.
Ah then, thy once-lov'd Eloisa see!
It will be then no crime to gaze on me.
See from my cheek the transient roses fly!
See the last sparkle languish in my eye!
Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er;
And ev'n my Abelard be lov'd no more.
O Death all-eloquent! you only prove
What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.

Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy,
(That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy)
In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd,
Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round,
From op'ning skies may streaming glories shine,
And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.

May one kind grave unite each hapless name,
And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,
When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;
If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings
To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs,
O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds;
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,
"Oh may we never love as these have lov'd!"

From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise,
And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
Amid that scene if some relenting eye
Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
Devotion's self shall steal a thought from Heav'n,
One human tear shall drop and be forgiv'n.
And sure, if fate some future bard shall join
In sad similitude of griefs to mine,
Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves so long, so well;
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;
He best can paint 'em, who shall feel 'em most.

There will be more to come on this... but for now... enjoy.