Herrick
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.
One Flesh
Elizabeth Jennings
Lying apart now, each in a separate bed,
He with a book, keeping the light on late,
She like a girl dreaming of childhood,
All men elsewhere – it is as if they wait
Some new event: the book he holds unread,
Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.
Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion,
How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch,
Or if they do, it is like a confession
Of having little feeling – or too much.
Chastity faces them, a destination
For which their whole lives were a preparation.
Strangely apart, yet strangely close together,
Silence between them like a thread to hold
And not wind in. And time itself’s a feather
Touching them gently. Do they know they’re old,
These two who are my father and my mother
Whose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?
To Her Ancient Lover
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
Ancient person, for whom I,
All the flattering youth defy;
Long be it e’er thou grow old,
Aching, shaking, crazy cold.
But still continue as thou art,
Ancient person of my heart.
On thy withered lips and dry,
Which like barren furrows lye;
Brooding kisses I will pour,
Shall thy youthful heat restore.
Such kind showers in autumn fall,
And a second spring recall:
Nor from thee will ever part,
Ancient person of my heart.
Thy nobler part, which but to name
In our sex would be counted shame,
By age’s frozen grasp possessed,
From his ice shall be released,
And soothed by my reviving hand,
In former warmth and vigour stand.
All a lover’s wish can reach,
For thy joy my love shall teach;
And for thy pleasure shall improve,
All that art can add to love.
Yet still I love thee without art,
Ancient person of my heart.
Address
C. H. Sisson
You whom I never loved,
You I have never touched
Live in my mind as if you proved
A thesis about other such,
Which is, that firm and tender flesh
Is medicine for an ageing man,
As if one body could refresh
Another as it never can.
The crook of age, the spring of youth,
Are equally the work of time;
What is in common is the truth
That age is age and prime is prime
And that both quickly slip away
To other hours, or none at all:
Whatever words the ghosts may say
It is the bodies take the fall.
Pretence may entertain the old,
The young may answer with a lie
But neither old nor young can hold
The same illusion till they die.
I look on you, you look on me;
For both, to speak no word is best.
I contemplate your lovely youth;
You cannot bear to think the rest.
‘What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why’
Edna St Vincent Millay
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
On the French Riviera
Ian Pindar
Youth and beauty have left me
a full packet of cigarettes
and this balcony. Time redecorates
my home as a reliquary.
The camera loved me once,
as everyone loves a young
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.
One Flesh
Elizabeth Jennings
Lying apart now, each in a separate bed,
He with a book, keeping the light on late,
She like a girl dreaming of childhood,
All men elsewhere – it is as if they wait
Some new event: the book he holds unread,
Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.
Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion,
How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch,
Or if they do, it is like a confession
Of having little feeling – or too much.
Chastity faces them, a destination
For which their whole lives were a preparation.
Strangely apart, yet strangely close together,
Silence between them like a thread to hold
And not wind in. And time itself’s a feather
Touching them gently. Do they know they’re old,
These two who are my father and my mother
Whose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?
To Her Ancient Lover
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
Ancient person, for whom I,
All the flattering youth defy;
Long be it e’er thou grow old,
Aching, shaking, crazy cold.
But still continue as thou art,
Ancient person of my heart.
On thy withered lips and dry,
Which like barren furrows lye;
Brooding kisses I will pour,
Shall thy youthful heat restore.
Such kind showers in autumn fall,
And a second spring recall:
Nor from thee will ever part,
Ancient person of my heart.
Thy nobler part, which but to name
In our sex would be counted shame,
By age’s frozen grasp possessed,
From his ice shall be released,
And soothed by my reviving hand,
In former warmth and vigour stand.
All a lover’s wish can reach,
For thy joy my love shall teach;
And for thy pleasure shall improve,
All that art can add to love.
Yet still I love thee without art,
Ancient person of my heart.
Address
C. H. Sisson
You whom I never loved,
You I have never touched
Live in my mind as if you proved
A thesis about other such,
Which is, that firm and tender flesh
Is medicine for an ageing man,
As if one body could refresh
Another as it never can.
The crook of age, the spring of youth,
Are equally the work of time;
What is in common is the truth
That age is age and prime is prime
And that both quickly slip away
To other hours, or none at all:
Whatever words the ghosts may say
It is the bodies take the fall.
Pretence may entertain the old,
The young may answer with a lie
But neither old nor young can hold
The same illusion till they die.
I look on you, you look on me;
For both, to speak no word is best.
I contemplate your lovely youth;
You cannot bear to think the rest.
‘What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why’
Edna St Vincent Millay
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
On the French Riviera
Ian Pindar
Youth and beauty have left me
a full packet of cigarettes
and this balcony. Time redecorates
my home as a reliquary.
The camera loved me once,
as everyone loves a young
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