Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ELEGY: 9. THE AUTUMNAL [BEAUTY] by JOHN DONNE

Poet Analysis

First Line: NO SPRING, NOR SUMMER BEAUTY HATH SUCH GRACE
Last Line: I SHALL EBBE OUT WITH THEM, WHO HOME-WARD GOE.
Subject(s): LOVE;
No @3Spring@1, nor @3Summer@1 Beauty hath such grace,
As I have seen in one @3Autumnall@1 face.
Yong @3Beauties@1 force our love, and that's a @3Rape@1,
This doth but @3counsaile@1, yet you cannot scape.
If t'were a @3shame@1 to love, here t'were no @3shame@1,
@3Affection@1 here takes @3Reverences@1 name.
Were her first yeares the @3Golden Age@1; That's true,
But now shee's @3gold@1 oft tried, and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time,
This is her tolerable @3Tropique clyme@1.
Faire eyes, who askes more heate then comes from hence,
He in a fever wishes pestilence.
Call not these wrinkles, @3graves@1; If @3graves@1 they were,
They were @3Loves graves@1; for else he is no where.
Yet lies not Love @3dead@1 here, but here doth sit
Vow'd to this trench, like an @3Anachorit@1.
And here, till hers, which must be his @3death@1, come,
He doth not digge a @3Grave@1, but build a @3Tombe@1,
Here dwells he, though he sojourne ev'ry where,
In @3Progresse@1, yet his standing house is here.
Here, where still @3Evening@1 is; not @3noone@1, nor @3night@1;
Where no @3voluptuousnesse@1, yet all @3delight@1.
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
You may at @3Revels@1, you at @3Counsaile@1, sit.
This is loves timber, youth his under-wood;
There he, as wine in @3June@1, enrages blood,
Which then comes seasonabliest, when our tast
And appetite to other things, is past.
@3Xerxes@1 strange @3Lydian@1 love, the @3Platane@1 tree,
Was lov'd for age, none being so large as shee,
Or else because, being young, nature did blesse
Her youth with ages glory, @3Barrennesse@1.
If we love things long sought, @3Age@1 is a thing
Which we are fifty yeares in compassing.
If transitory things, which soone decay,
@3Age@1 must be lovelyest at the latest day.
But name not @3Winter-faces@1, whose skin's slacke;
Lanke, as an unthrifts purse; but a soules sacke;
Whose @3Eyes@1 seeke light within, for all here's shade;
Whose @3mouthes@1 are holes, ratherworne out, then made;
Whose every tooth to a severall place is gone,
To vexe their soules at @3Resurrection@1;
Name not these living @3Deaths-heads@1 unto mee,
For these, not @3Ancient@1, but @3Antique@1 be.
I hate extreames; yet I had rather stay
With @3Tombs@1, then @3Cradles@1, to weare out a day.
Since such loves naturall lation is, may still
My love descend, and journey downe the hill,
Not panting after growing beauties, so,
I shall ebbe out with them, who home-ward goe.



Home: PoetryExplorer.net