To Poesy
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Title
To Poesy
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Description
A thousand suppliants stand around thy throne,
Stricken with love for thee, O Poesy.
I stand among them, and with them I groan,
And stretch my arms for help. Oh, pity me!
No man (save them thou gav'st the right to ascend
And sit with thee, 'nointing with unction fine,
Calling thyself their servant and their friend)
Has loved thee with a purer love than mine.
For, as thou yieldest thy fair self so free
To Masters not a few, so wayward men
Give half their adoration up to thee,
Beseech another goddess guide their pen,
And with another muse their pleasure take.
Not so with me! I neither cease to love,
Nor am content to love but for the sake
Of passing pleasures caught from thee above.
For some will listen to thy trembling voice
Since in its mournful music warbling low,
Or in its measured chants, or bubbling joys
They hear beloved tunes of long ago.
And some are but enamoured of thy grace
And find it well to kneel to thee, and pray,
Because there oft-times play upon thy face
Smiles of an earthly maiden far away.
Before the eyes of all thou hast the power
To spread Elysium. Gorgeous memories
Of days far distant in the past can flower
Afresh beneath thy touch; yet not for these
Thy mighty spells I love and hymn thy name;
Nor yet because thou know'st the unseen road
Which leads unto the awful halls of Fame,
Where, midst the heapèd honours, thine the load
Most richly prized, of all the crowns the best!
No! not for these I long to win thee, Sweet!
No more is this my fervent, hopeless quest---
To stand among the great ones there, to meet
The bards of old and greet them as my peers.
O impious thought! O I am mad to ask
E'en that their voice may ever reach my ears.
Yet show thou me the task,
That shall, as years advance, give power and skill,
Firm hands; an eye which takes all beauty in,
That I may woo thee thus, if thus thy will.
Ah, gladly would I on such task begin
But that I know this learning must be bought
With gold as well as toil, and gold I lack.
What then? Dost bid me first seek out the Court
Where this world's wretched god, the money-sack,
Doles out his favours to the cringing herd,
There slave for him awhile to earn his pelf?
E'en should I leave him soon, my heart is stirred
With glorious fear and trembles in itself,
When I look forth upon the vasty seas
Of learning to be travelled o'er.
I fain
Would know the hills, the founts, the very trees,
Where sang the Greeks of old. I would have plain
Before my vision, heroes, poets, kings,
Hear their clear accents; then observe where trod
E'en mythic men; yea, next on Hermes' wings
Would mount Olympus and discern each god.
All this to speed my suit with Poesy
Meseems must do; and far, far more than this;
In divers tongues my thoughts must flow out free;
And, in my own tongue, with no word amiss,
For all its writers must be known to me.
My hand must wield the critic's weapons, too,
To save myself, or strike an enemy.
Oh grant that this long training ne'er undo
My simple, ardent love! Throw early dews
Of inspiration oft-times on my brow.
Let them fall suddenly and darkly as thou choose,
Uncertain, fitful as the thunder-drops
Which sprinkle us then cease, to splash once more
Rapidly round, still pausing for long stops,
Not knowing if to vent their heavy store
Upon the parching ground, or wait awhile
Till hasty travelling winds bring increased worth.
But as at last the concentrated pile
Of seething vapours flings its might to earth
In spurts of fire and rain, and to the ground
Flashes its energy, yields up its very soul,
So, midst long triumph-roars of awful sound,
Flash thou thy soul to me at last, and roll
Torrential streams of thought upon my brain,
So give, yea give Thyself to me
At last.
We shall be happy, thou and I. In me
Thou'lt find a jealous guardian of thy charms,
A doting master, leaving all to be
Ever with thee, ever in thine arms.
Forget my youth, forget my ignorance,
Spurn not my lowliness, and lack of friends
Who might help on my progress and perchance
Present me fearless at the throne where bends
Full timidly my lonely being now.
Friends' service would be naught if thine own hand
Uplifted me; do not thine eyes endow
Far brighter wealth than books, and far more grand?
Then come! Come with a rushing impulse swift,
Or draw near slowly, gently, so it be
Never to part.
Round us the world may drift,
Some with scoffs and frowns, with laughter some:
Their hateful mockery I shall not heed.
How could I feel ashamed to stand with one
Who deigns to stoop and be my life's high meed?
Yet if I would not for its jeering shun
The world, no more would I parade its courts
To change those jeers to applause by showing men
Thy power. Publicity but poorly sorts
My sacred joy, if thou should'st guide my pen.
Loath would I be to show my exceeding bliss
Even to closest friends. But all unseen,
And far from men's gaze would I feel thy kiss;
No witness save the speechless star-lamps keen
When thou stoop'st over me. No eye
But Cynthia's look on us, when through the night
We sit alone, our faces pressing nigh,
Quietly shining in her quiet light.
Stricken with love for thee, O Poesy.
I stand among them, and with them I groan,
And stretch my arms for help. Oh, pity me!
No man (save them thou gav'st the right to ascend
And sit with thee, 'nointing with unction fine,
Calling thyself their servant and their friend)
Has loved thee with a purer love than mine.
For, as thou yieldest thy fair self so free
To Masters not a few, so wayward men
Give half their adoration up to thee,
Beseech another goddess guide their pen,
And with another muse their pleasure take.
Not so with me! I neither cease to love,
Nor am content to love but for the sake
Of passing pleasures caught from thee above.
For some will listen to thy trembling voice
Since in its mournful music warbling low,
Or in its measured chants, or bubbling joys
They hear beloved tunes of long ago.
And some are but enamoured of thy grace
And find it well to kneel to thee, and pray,
Because there oft-times play upon thy face
Smiles of an earthly maiden far away.
Before the eyes of all thou hast the power
To spread Elysium. Gorgeous memories
Of days far distant in the past can flower
Afresh beneath thy touch; yet not for these
Thy mighty spells I love and hymn thy name;
Nor yet because thou know'st the unseen road
Which leads unto the awful halls of Fame,
Where, midst the heapèd honours, thine the load
Most richly prized, of all the crowns the best!
No! not for these I long to win thee, Sweet!
No more is this my fervent, hopeless quest---
To stand among the great ones there, to meet
The bards of old and greet them as my peers.
O impious thought! O I am mad to ask
E'en that their voice may ever reach my ears.
Yet show thou me the task,
That shall, as years advance, give power and skill,
Firm hands; an eye which takes all beauty in,
That I may woo thee thus, if thus thy will.
Ah, gladly would I on such task begin
But that I know this learning must be bought
With gold as well as toil, and gold I lack.
What then? Dost bid me first seek out the Court
Where this world's wretched god, the money-sack,
Doles out his favours to the cringing herd,
There slave for him awhile to earn his pelf?
E'en should I leave him soon, my heart is stirred
With glorious fear and trembles in itself,
When I look forth upon the vasty seas
Of learning to be travelled o'er.
I fain
Would know the hills, the founts, the very trees,
Where sang the Greeks of old. I would have plain
Before my vision, heroes, poets, kings,
Hear their clear accents; then observe where trod
E'en mythic men; yea, next on Hermes' wings
Would mount Olympus and discern each god.
All this to speed my suit with Poesy
Meseems must do; and far, far more than this;
In divers tongues my thoughts must flow out free;
And, in my own tongue, with no word amiss,
For all its writers must be known to me.
My hand must wield the critic's weapons, too,
To save myself, or strike an enemy.
Oh grant that this long training ne'er undo
My simple, ardent love! Throw early dews
Of inspiration oft-times on my brow.
Let them fall suddenly and darkly as thou choose,
Uncertain, fitful as the thunder-drops
Which sprinkle us then cease, to splash once more
Rapidly round, still pausing for long stops,
Not knowing if to vent their heavy store
Upon the parching ground, or wait awhile
Till hasty travelling winds bring increased worth.
But as at last the concentrated pile
Of seething vapours flings its might to earth
In spurts of fire and rain, and to the ground
Flashes its energy, yields up its very soul,
So, midst long triumph-roars of awful sound,
Flash thou thy soul to me at last, and roll
Torrential streams of thought upon my brain,
So give, yea give Thyself to me
At last.
We shall be happy, thou and I. In me
Thou'lt find a jealous guardian of thy charms,
A doting master, leaving all to be
Ever with thee, ever in thine arms.
Forget my youth, forget my ignorance,
Spurn not my lowliness, and lack of friends
Who might help on my progress and perchance
Present me fearless at the throne where bends
Full timidly my lonely being now.
Friends' service would be naught if thine own hand
Uplifted me; do not thine eyes endow
Far brighter wealth than books, and far more grand?
Then come! Come with a rushing impulse swift,
Or draw near slowly, gently, so it be
Never to part.
Round us the world may drift,
Some with scoffs and frowns, with laughter some:
Their hateful mockery I shall not heed.
How could I feel ashamed to stand with one
Who deigns to stoop and be my life's high meed?
Yet if I would not for its jeering shun
The world, no more would I parade its courts
To change those jeers to applause by showing men
Thy power. Publicity but poorly sorts
My sacred joy, if thou should'st guide my pen.
Loath would I be to show my exceeding bliss
Even to closest friends. But all unseen,
And far from men's gaze would I feel thy kiss;
No witness save the speechless star-lamps keen
When thou stoop'st over me. No eye
But Cynthia's look on us, when through the night
We sit alone, our faces pressing nigh,
Quietly shining in her quiet light.
Identifier
3377.txt
Creator
Owen, Wilfred (1893-1918)
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Date
1909 - 1910
Type
Poem
Publisher
The First World War Poetry Digital Archive
Source
The Complete Poems and Fragments of Wilfred Owen edited by Jon Stallworthy first published by Chatto & Windus, 1983.
(#1, CPF vol. 1, pp. 3-6, vol. 2, p. 197)
OEF 1 and v, 2 and v, 2 and v
(#1, CPF vol. 1, pp. 3-6, vol. 2, p. 197)
OEF 1 and v, 2 and v, 2 and v
