Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying;
My dog and I are old, too old for roving.
Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying,
Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving.
Heil Hans, yes master.
The three spelling errors did not at all prohibit me to enjoy the poem thoroughly. It is a wonderful piece of poetry, extremely well written and very rich in meaning.
PS to Juan and Adeline: if the spelling is so much on your nerve, just copy it and paste it in word, correct the spelling and go on and fully enjoy the poem. :) Always look at the bright side of life :)
I am old. The last four lines are welcomed.
A thoughtful poem and a positive finish. The poem really rings in the mind.
Put aside the misspellings and your devotion to SPELLCHECK, please, and tell us how someone's error in scanning the poem on the computer 'detracts from the TRUE meaning of the poem'? What do you think the true meaning is, as opposed to a false meaning? Perhaps you were distracted from concentrating, is that it?
It is wonderful that someone likes these dead masters enough to put their poems on this site. But whoever it is that is typing up these poems, have you not heard of spellcheck? How demeaning to find such a lovely set of sonnets with misspelled words. It detracts from the true meaning of the poem.
A matched pair of sonnets 'On Growing Old' make a meditative and serene comment in mellifluous and melancholy tones suited to the subject. The speaker directs an apostrophe to the personification of an abstract ideal - 'Beauty' which stays long after the vigor of youth has waned. Time flies and takes its toll way too soon, 'The beauty of fire' (vivid youth) is extinguished by 'the beauty of embers' (the ashes of age in an apt metaphor) !
When the passion for life is eroded by the stresses of jostling among the crowds that swarm the streets of London (or New York or wherever!) as time marches on, one is relegated to the role of bystander. Give me wisdom and passion, dimnished though it may be, and I'll settle for these which sustain the soul in times of loss. The poet has translated the 'beauty of fire' into the embers that come to life and blaze and blossom like the fiery red rose in the encroaching night of death!
A great majestic poem, its form reflecting the slow but wisdom-filled pace of ageing. But I doubt the last line 'Even the night will blossom as the rose.'
way to go this is a wonderful piece of art. keep it up! ! ! !
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10/27/2021 3:27:09 PM # 22.214.171.1248