» Being metaphysical

The ‘metaphysical poets’ have a reputation for being difficult. And they are. If you have not read it, read Air and angels in full (it’s 32 lines). However the metaphysical poets, amongst whom Donne (above) and Marvell stand tall, can use language in a way which is consistently magical. Talk about “turn[ing] a phrase until it catches the light” (Clive James).

Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.

John Donne . 1572-1631 . English poet and cleric . The anagram

Twice or thrice had I lov’d thee,
Before I knew thy face or name;
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame
Angels affect us oft, and worshipp’d be

John Donne . Air and angels

I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry.

John Donne . The triple fool

Since she whom I lov’d hath paid her last debt
To nature, and to hers, and my good is dead,
And her soul early into heaven ravished,
Wholly in heavenly things my mind is set.

John Donne . Holy sonnet XVII

He is stark mad, who ever says,
That he hath been in love an hour,
Yet not that love so soon decays,
But that it can ten in less space devour;
Who will believe me, if I swear
That I have had the plague a year?

John Donne . The broken heart

Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?

John Donne . The Sun rising

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lacked any thing.

George Herbert . 1593-1633 . English poet, orator and priest . Love

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.

Andrew Marvell . 1621–1678 . English poet, satirist and politician . To his coy mistress

An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze.
Two hundred to adore each breast.
But thirty thousand to the rest.
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For Lady you deserve this state;
Nor would I love at lower rate.

Andrew Marvell . To his coy mistress

To make a final conquest of all me,
Love did compose so sweet an enemy,
In whom both beauties to my death agree,
Joining themselves in fatal harmony,
That, while she with her eyes my heart does bind,
She with her voice might captivate my mind.

Andrew Marvell . The fair singer

My Love is of a birth as rare
As ‘tis, for object, strange and high;
It was begotten by Despair,
Upon Impossibility.

Andrew Marvell . The definition of love

See with what simplicity
This nymph begins her golden days!
In the green grass she loves to lie,
And there with her fair aspect tames
The wilder flowers, and gives them names;
But only with the roses plays,
And them does tell
What colour best becomes them, and what smell.

Andrew Marvell . The picture of little TC in a prospect of flowers

My soul, there is a country
Far beyond the stars
Where stands a wingèd sentry
All skillful in the wars

Henry Vaughan . 1622-1695 . Welsh poet and doctor . Silex scintillans, Peace

I saw Eternity the other night
Like a great ring of pure and endless light.
All calm, as it was bright;
And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years,
Driv’n by the spheres
Like a vast shadow moved; in which the world
And all her train were hurled.

Henry Vaughan . Silex scintillans, The world

Further material:
> Quotations

Being metaphysical

Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.

Twice or thrice had I lov’d thee, Before I knew thy face or name; So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame Angels affect us oft, and worshipp’d be

I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so In whining poetry.

Since she whom I lov’d hath paid her last debt To nature, and to hers, and my good is dead, And her soul early into heaven ravished, Wholly in heavenly things my mind is set.

He is stark mad, who ever says, That he hath been in love an hour, Yet not that love so soon decays, But that it can ten in less space devour; Who will believe me, if I swear That I have had the plague a year?

Busy old fool, unruly Sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us?

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, If I lacked any thing.

Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime.

An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze. Two hundred to adore each breast. But thirty thousand to the rest. An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For Lady you deserve this state; Nor would I love at lower rate.

To make a final conquest of all me, Love did compose so sweet an enemy, In whom both beauties to my death agree, Joining themselves in fatal harmony, That, while she with her eyes my heart does bind, She with her voice might captivate my mind.

My Love is of a birth as rare As ‘tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by Despair, Upon Impossibility.

See with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden days! In the green grass she loves to lie, And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flowers, and gives them names; But only with the roses plays, And them does tell What colour best becomes them, and what smell.

My soul, there is a country Far beyond the stars Where stands a wingèd sentry All skillful in the wars

I saw Eternity the other night Like a great ring of pure and endless light. All calm, as it was bright; And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years, Driv’n by the spheres Like a vast shadow moved; in which the world And all her train were hurled.

Further reading