(Poem #551) Her Beauty
I heard them say, "Her hands are hard as stone," And I rememebred how she laid for me The road to heaven. They said, "Her hair is grey." Then I remembered how she once had thrown Long plaited strands, like cables, into the sea I battled in -- the salt sea of dismay. They say, "Her beauty's past." And then I wept, That these, who should have been in love adept, Against my font of beauty should blaspheme. And hearing a new music, miss the theme.
One of the delightful things about love poetry is its endless series of variations on even the most timeworn themes. Today's poem, for instance, has been foreshadowed by a countless series of poems on love, beauty and aging, but nonetheless manages to strike its own individual note. Form: Iambic pentameter, rhyming abcabcddee. Does anyone know if this is a 'named' verse form? Biographical Notes: I couldn't find much on Plowman online - he seems to be best known for his book 'An Introduction to the Study of Blake', and to have added his voice to the canon of WW1 poets, but that's all I could dig up. If anyone knows anything more (dates would be nice, for instance) do send it in. -martin