You know not, And that's the reason why you do—or do not. But what 's this to the purpose? You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 'Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind blows;' And such a straw, borne on by human breath, Is poesy, according as the mind glows; A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, A shadow which the onward soul behind throws: And mine 's a bubble, not blown up for praise, But just to play with, as an infant plays.
The world is all before me—or behind; For I have seen a portion of that same, And quite enough for me to keep in mind;— Of passions, too, I have proved enough to blame, To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame; For I was rather famous in my time, Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. I have brought this world about my ears, and eke The other; that 's to say, the clergy, who Upon my head have bid their thunders break In pious libels by no means a few.
And yet I can't help scribbling once a week, Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. In youth I wrote because my mind was full, And now because I feel it growing dull. But 'why then publish? I ask in turn,—Why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? It occupies me to turn back regards On what I 've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery; And what I write I cast upon the stream, To swim or sink—I have had at least my dream.
I think that were I certain of success, I hardly could compose another line: So long I 've battled either more or less, That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. This feeling 't is not easy to express, And yet 't is not affected, I opine. In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing— The one is winning, and the other losing. Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction: She gathers a repertory of facts, Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, But mostly sings of human things and acts— And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction; For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts; And were her object only what 's call'd glory, With more ease too she 'd tell a different story.
Love, war, a tempest—surely there 's variety; Also a seasoning slight of lucubration; A bird's-eye view, too, of that wild, Society; A slight glance thrown on men of every station.
If you have nought else, here 's at least satiety Both in performance and in preparation; And though these lines should only line portmanteaus, Trade will be all the better for these Cantos. The portion of this world which I at present Have taken up to fill the following sermon, Is one of which there 's no description recent. The reason why is easy to determine: Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, A dull and family likeness through all ages, Of no great promise for poetic pages.
With much to excite, there 's little to exalt; Nothing that speaks to all men and all times; A sort of varnish over every fault; A kind of common-place, even in their crimes; Factitious passions, wit without much salt, A want of that true nature which sublimes Whate'er it shows with truth; a smooth monotony Of character, in those at least who have got any.
Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill; But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, And they must be or seem what they were: still Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade; But when of the first sight you have had your fill, It palls—at least it did so upon me, This paradise of pleasure and ennui. When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming, Drest, voted, shone, and, may be, something more; With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming; Seen beauties brought to market by the score, Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming; There 's little left but to be bored or bore.
Witness those 'ci-devant jeunes hommes' who stem The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. But this can't well be true, just now; for writers Are grown of the beau monde a part potential: I 've seen them balance even the scale with fighters, Especially when young, for that 's essential.
Why do their sketches fail them as inditers Of what they deem themselves most consequential, The real portrait of the highest tribe? Now I could much more easily sketch a harem, A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, Than these things; and besides, I wish to spare 'em, For reasons which I choose to keep apart. And therefore what I throw off is ideal— Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of freemasons; Which bears the same relation to the real, As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's.
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Others Others. Other uncategorized cookies are those that are being analyzed and have not been classified into a category as yet. His poems are published online and in print. She Walks In Beauty is a lyrical, rhyming poem that focuses on female beauty and explores the idea that physical appearance depends upon inner goodness and, if in harmony, can result in the romantic ideal of aesthetic perfection.
In the real life of George Gordon, Lord Byron, 'mad, bad and dangerous to know' , it is known that he did attend a party in London on June 11th, and met a distant cousin of his, Anne Beatrix Horton, Lady Wilmot, who happened to be dressed in black mourning dress with shiny spangles. Byron's friend, James Wedderburn Webster, confirmed later on that Lady Wilmot, young and pale and pretty, had been the inspiration for the poem.
So, it seems that the handsome, witty, passionate poet, known for his drinking and sexual encounters, was simply struck by a beautiful woman on this occasion.
Byron did include She Walks In Beauty in his book Hebrew Songs of , a collection of lyrical poems to be put to music. Hence the steady metrical beat, use of religious language and long vowels.
Whilst the poem is clearly fixated on a female figure and her outward appearance there is also acknowledgement of an inner spiritual core, where pure thoughts and emotions lie. It's not unreasonable to suggest that George Gordon, Byron, the restless, heroic celebrity of his time, saw in Anne Wilmot the antithesis of his own soul, expressing purity and peace, two qualities he recognised as absent in his.
She Walks In Beauty is a flowing, musical lyric poem initially written as a song by Byron. It explores the idea of a female's physical appearance being dependent on her inner psychical state. That well known first line is simple enough yet also slightly mysterious because of that preposition in which suggests the female figure's relationship to beauty is total. The caesura midway through the line places special emphasis on that word beauty - the reader has to pause at the comma - with the feminine ending to beauty contrasting with the masculine night, the first of many opposites.
And note that the enjambment, when the line continues into the next without punctuation, is vital to maintaining the sense. The female is compared to the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, a simile which needs both lines to work to full effect.
Lines three and four are similar in that line three is incomplete without line four, dark and bright meet - again the duality persists. The eyes have long been called the windows of the soul so the speaker is suggesting that her soul tends towards perfection all that's best. The last two lines, five and six, imply that the light of the night has the qualities of skin; it can be touched tender , and that she has developed a naturally relaxed, softened approach to it.
Daylight in comparison is vulgar and lacking gaudy. Nuances are apparent in this first line. If she gained or lost only a little of either the dark or light her nameless grace a second religious reference?
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