-Sonnet 113-
Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind,
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function, and is partly blind;
Seems seeing, but effectually is out:
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch;
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch:
For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet-favoured or deformed'st creature,
The mountain, or the sea, the day, or night,
The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue
Shakespeare is straight forward. He cannot wrest the image of his beloved from his mind. All connections drawn from objects are related back to her.
It feels like an opening chapter.
I wonder to write myself. If I pay attention to detail. In describing this emotional state. I get this state. I think we all do. Well... that's why shakespeare is timeless. But I want to capture and relate to it. Pull words directly from some underlying concept in my love that was. It feels huge to try to use Shakespeare in a piece. The man was a genius. There's no harm in trying.
-The Paradox- (Donne)
No lover saith, I love, nor any other
Can judge a perfect lover;
He thinks that else none can, nor will agree
That any loves but he:
I cannot say I loved, for who can say
He was killed yesterday?
Love with excess of heat, more young than old,
Death kills with too much cold;
We die but once, and who loved last did die,
He that saith twice, doth lie:
For though he seems to move, and stir a while,
It doth the sense beguile.
Such life is like the light which bideth yet
When the light's life is set
Or like the heat, which fire in solid matter
Leaves behind, two hours after.
Once I loved and died; and am now become
Mine epitaph and tomb.
Here dead men speak their last, and so do I;
Love-slain, lo, here I lie.
Donne is harder for me. This feeling. Is it that we love, but cannot or will not relate our love to another. Donne talks about one love. Seems to talk about absolute monogomy here. We will have romantic, fulfilled love once. Or is it that when our one love dies we cannot love truly again. This wants more thought. There is a fear with God planning a single part for you that you will miss the chance. He or she will be right in front of you. Your one love. You might let it pass you by and it would be over. How then do we wait? How will we know?
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function, and is partly blind;
Seems seeing, but effectually is out:
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch;
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch:
For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet-favoured or deformed'st creature,
The mountain, or the sea, the day, or night,
The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue
Shakespeare is straight forward. He cannot wrest the image of his beloved from his mind. All connections drawn from objects are related back to her.
It feels like an opening chapter.
I wonder to write myself. If I pay attention to detail. In describing this emotional state. I get this state. I think we all do. Well... that's why shakespeare is timeless. But I want to capture and relate to it. Pull words directly from some underlying concept in my love that was. It feels huge to try to use Shakespeare in a piece. The man was a genius. There's no harm in trying.
-The Paradox- (Donne)
No lover saith, I love, nor any other
Can judge a perfect lover;
He thinks that else none can, nor will agree
That any loves but he:
I cannot say I loved, for who can say
He was killed yesterday?
Love with excess of heat, more young than old,
Death kills with too much cold;
We die but once, and who loved last did die,
He that saith twice, doth lie:
For though he seems to move, and stir a while,
It doth the sense beguile.
Such life is like the light which bideth yet
When the light's life is set
Or like the heat, which fire in solid matter
Leaves behind, two hours after.
Once I loved and died; and am now become
Mine epitaph and tomb.
Here dead men speak their last, and so do I;
Love-slain, lo, here I lie.
Donne is harder for me. This feeling. Is it that we love, but cannot or will not relate our love to another. Donne talks about one love. Seems to talk about absolute monogomy here. We will have romantic, fulfilled love once. Or is it that when our one love dies we cannot love truly again. This wants more thought. There is a fear with God planning a single part for you that you will miss the chance. He or she will be right in front of you. Your one love. You might let it pass you by and it would be over. How then do we wait? How will we know?
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