(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
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