今天要看的是John Donne的The Sun Rising以及Death, Be Not Pround,这两首诗的开头要好好的注意一下
The Sun Rising
BUSY old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us ?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run ?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices ;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Thy beams so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou think ?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long.
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and to-morrow late tell me,
Whether both th’ Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left’st them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, “All here in one bed lay.”
She’s all states, and all princes I ;
Nothing else is ;
Princes do but play us ; compared to this,
All honour’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus ;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere ;
This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.
The Sun Rising is one such poem. It begins with a rush of blood, a blunt telling off, as if the speaker’s space and style has been cramped. He is annoyed. To allay the self-induced tension the speaker soon begins to compare himself with the sun, belittling the power of that mighty star, declaring love the master of all.
In the end the lovers and, more importantly, the bed in the room, become the focal point of the cosmos, around which everything revolves, even the unruly sun.
Analysis of The Sun Rising – Form,Syntax and Tone
Three stanzas, each ten lines long, make this an unusual aubade (a dawn love poem). With irregular line length and regular rhyme scheme of abbacdcdee it is a bit of a hybrid.
The first four lines build up the argument, sonnet-like, the next four consolidate and the final couplet concludes. The meter (metre) is also varied, lines having anywhere from four to six beats, iambs mixing with anapaest and spondee to produce a stuttering uncertain rhythm.
Short, sharp clauses, longer sentences and plenty of punctuation bring energy and emotion to the speaker’s voice, and help deliver the arguments and images in a dramatic, depthful manner. Take the final couplet in the third stanza:
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.
Simplicity itself, with pauses that allow the reader to take in the conclusion, yet, typically of Donne, he throws in an image to catch us off guard – the bed is rectangular, the room likewise, but sphere suggests a spherical shell, one in which a celestial body might orbit in a fixed relationship.
The speaker is initially affronted by the presence of the sun and wastes no time in berating the intrusion, questioning its appearance at a time when love is the priority, and love is not to be influenced or regulated by the course of a pedant.
You can picture the lovers being disturbed by bright sunshine streaming in at dawn – the equivalent of someone shouting. All they want to do is continue their sleep. Who wouldn’t be annoyed?
The speaker’s tone does shift as the poem progresses. In the second stanza all the heat has dissipated and there is a more thoughtful approach as the speaker attempts to persuade the sun that his lover has the power to blind him.
In the end the speaker suggests that the lover’s bed and room is a microcosm of the solar system, so the sun is invited to revolve around them.
Death.Be Not Proud
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death,nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul,s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.