or
Take, O take those lips away.
And strangest of all perhaps is the tenderness which came into Donne's
poetry when a sincere passion quickened in his heart, for tenderness,
the note of
O wert thou in the cauld blast,
is the last quality one would look for in the poetry of a nature at
once so intellectual and with such a capacity for caustic satire. But
the beautiful if not flawless _Elegy XVI_,
By our first strange and fatal interview,
and the _Valedictions_ which he wrote on different occasions of
parting from his wife, combine with the peculiar _élan_ of all Donne's
passionate poetry and its intellectual content a tenderness as perfect
as anything in Burns or in Browning:
O more than Moone,
Draw not up seas to drowne me in thy spheare,
Weepe me not dead in thine armes, but forbeare
To teach the sea, what it may doe too soone.
Let not thy divining heart
Forethink me any ill,
Destiny may take thy part
And may thy feares fulfill;
But thinke that we
Are but turn'd aside to sleep;
They who one another keepe
Alive, ne'er parted be.
Such wilt thou be to mee, who must
Like th' other foot, obliquely runne;
Thy firmnes makes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begunne.
The poet who wrote such verses as these did not believe any longer
that 'love ... represents the principle of perpetual flux in nature'.
But Donne's poetry is not so simple a thing of the heart and of the
senses as that of Burns and Catullus. Even his purer poetry has more
complex moods--consider _The Prohibition_--and it is metaphysical, not
only in the sense of being erudite and witty, but in the proper sense
of being reflective and philosophical. Donne is always conscious of
the import of his moods; and so it is that there emerges from his
poems a philosophy or a suggested philosophy of love to take the place
of the idealism which he rejects. Set a song of the joy of love
by Burns or by Catullus such as I have cited beside Donne's
_Anniversarie_,
All Kings, and all their favorites,
All glory of honors, beauties, wits,
The Sun itselfe, which makes times, as they passe,
Is elder by a year, now, than it was
When thou and I first one another saw,
and the difference is at once apparent. Burns gets no further than the
experience, Catullus than the obvious and hedonistic reflection that
time is flying, the moment of pleasure short. In Donne's poem one
feels the quickening of the brain, the vision extending its range, the
passion gathering sweep with the expanding rhythms, and from the mind
thus heated and inspired emerges, not a cry that time might stay its
course,
Lente, lente currite noctis equi,
but a clearer consciousness of the eternal significance of love, not
the love that aspires after the unattainable, but the love that
unites contented hearts. The method of the poet is, I suppose, too
dialectical to be popular, for the poem is in few Anthologies. It may
be that the Pagan and Christian strains which the poet unites are not
perfectly blended--if it is possible to do so--but to me it seems that
the joy of love has never been expressed at once with such intensity
and such elevation.
And it is with sorrow as with joy. There is the same difference
of manner in the expression between Donne and these poets, and the
deepest thought is the same. The _Nocturnall on S. Lucies Day_ is
at the opposite pole of Donne's thought from the _Anniversarie_, and
compared with