Dirge Without Music
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the
love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not
approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the
world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the
love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not
approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the
world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
*********************************************************
The day rose gingerly and pressed upon my eyes with vigilance, causing me to rise. I took in the air swiftly and brought myself to meet the warmth brought by the brilliance of melted lights dripping down in rays from the faucet of sun.
I write often, and think on that as being a woman in a writing world. Women, subjected to the bigotry of a lesser forseen value, often times find themselves estranged and in solitude to be able to expand creatively. Emily Dickinson, for one, spent her life burdened to the peril of unrequited love. As well the Bronte sisters had little of marriage. Even J.K. Rowling only wrote Harry Potter after she had loved and lost. I leave myself to the quandary, Is being well in writing as a woman to be alone?
So, when reading on Edna Millay, I instantly wondered on to her life socially. It seems, from reading online, that though she was married, her life was not accounted for one but many affairs during a self proclaimed open marriage.
So, once again, I sit beside myself....and ponder.
Ponder.....
ReplyDeleteOne of my high school students asked after I had introduced an author (as I always did before we read the work) if all poets, writers, novelists had to experience tragedy in order to write well. If so, then he didn't want to write. My response was that we all experience some type of life events, full of emotion, full of changes, and we write about those often in our poetry, in our short stories. We observe life and write about our observations. Ponder....