To his Coy Mistress
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
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.
But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Another line I've been thinking of a lot lately, like in the garden today, sweating away happily, is actually a title of Richard Wilbur's: Love Calls Us To The Things Of This World. What it is about that totally hokey title that it is still rattling around in my noggin all the time. I'm sure the first time I heard/saw it I thought something dismissive. And really, still, I'm not sure I can fully get behind him slinging around "soul" and "angels" and shit like that, even with bed-sheets and smocks.
Something happened, though, to my connection to the image-driven aesthetic, following as it did on my discomfort with sentiment from the earliest days of watching Sesame Street. Oh, but maybe that wasn't sentiment. Maybe it was sanctimony. Hell. I don't know nuthin' no more. 'Cept that I'm going to take a shower and make a smoothie and watch a movie and hit the 'brar' and maybe write a letter and maybe call some folks and maybe wander down to Lady Sunshine but generally just kick around the way I can kick around, in this heady freedom I'm only beginning to embrace.
You know, even if we had world enough and time, two hundred years, Andy, is definitely too much time to spend on one breast. Makes my nipple sore just thinking about it.