Remember, you dont have to be correct, just give me an intelligent and thought-provoking answer will do…
Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.
Here life has death for neighbor,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labor,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.
No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes,
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.
Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness morn.
Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.
Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love’s who fears to greet her,
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.
She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.
There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.
We are not sure of sorrow;
And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
Time stoops to no man’s lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.
He’s dead!
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sounds like a conscience abyss but isn’t that like military intelligence?
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The poem seems to be about finality or death- or maybe the finality of death:
“He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
____Nor weep for pains in hell;”
The poet basically seems to say that the final step for any life is death and that it ends in deaths cold embrace. There is no after life, no heaven, no hell. It is a lonely, cold place that is devoid of tears and laughter and growth and prosperity.
It is interesting that he uses “Proserpine” in the poem, as she is the Roman goddess life after death or ‘rebirth’. Myth has it that when she goes down to the underworld, it is winter. Once she reappears, it is spring once again.
In the poem, however, there is no reappearance of Proserpine. He simply says:
“Pale, beyond porch and portal,
____Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
____With cold immortal hands;”
He continues to describe how all things alive eventually die:
“She waits for each and other,
____She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
____The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
____And flowers are put to scorn.”
And instead of continuing to describe the afterlife Prosperina would offer, he gives death a finality in the last line with:
“Then star nor sun shall waken,
____Nor any change of light:
…….
Only the sleep eternal
____In an eternal night.”
The concept that death is final is obviously not a new one- especially in poetry. But the interesting thing about this poem in particular is that it was written by a Victorian-era poet and must have been quite controversial at the time as the no life after death theory goes against the belief of most religions (and especially Christianity).
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