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Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542 / Kent / England)
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My Lute Awake
My lute awake! perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And end that I have now begun;
For when this song is sung and past,
My lute be still, for I have done.
As to be heard where ear is none,
As lead to grave in marble stone,
My song may pierce her heart as soon;
Should we then sigh or sing or moan?
No, no, my lute, for I have done.
The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suit and affection;
So that I am past remedy,
Whereby my lute and I have done.
Proud of the spoil that thou hast got
Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot,
By whom, unkind, thou hast them won,
Think not he hath his bow forgot,
Although my lute and I have done.
Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain
That makest but game on earnest pain.
Think not alone under the sun
Unquit to cause thy lovers plain,
Although my lute and I have done.
Perchance thee lie wethered and old
The winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon;
Thy wishes then dare not be told;
Care then who list, for I have done.
And then may chance thee to repent
The time that thou hast lost and spent
To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon;
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,
And wish and want as I have done.
Now cease, my lute; this is the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And ended is that we begun.
Now is this song both sung and past:
My lute be still, for I have done.
Read poems about / on: song, winter, moon, beauty, lost, pain, alone, sun
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Pleading of lover goes to deaf ears it seems! But the lute he has played will linger on after him too! The pain he has suffered she may suffer later! Such a hard rock against which waves are dashing in vain! Stanzas are well organised to write this poem but message is not great enough to cause great effect to the readers!
Each person plays their song in life. The lute being a gift of GOD. Then the music ends one day.
The complete title of Wyatt's 8 stanza poem is 'The Lover Complaineth the Unkindness of His Love.' To me both the form and style suggest the courtier who is complaining as he strums his lute about how his mistress has treated him. She ignores his songs of love. She is a rock that rejects the overtures of the seas of love that dash against her stoniness! My lute and I are fed up, darling! You will pay the price of your disdain one day! You will be ignored by all your suitors as you age and decline in beauty and charm. Cold winter nights are in the offing, my dear! Mark my words, I will be revenged! You'll feel what I've felt these many years! My lute and I will be silent forevermore! I'm done with you!
There is something a little too manufactured about this poem - one gets the impression of a poet more concerned with the form he has chosen then matching that form to its content.