To Strive, To Seek, To Find

William Adolphe Bougeureau. The Young Shepherdess. (Wikimedia Commons)

For Love Alone Shall She Relent

I’ll go with you and love you, dear.
For pleasures’ fill we need not fear.
Like oceans ride the tides of day,
We’ll swirl as gentle waves at play.

Our heads shall rest on wheaten piles
That, freshly threshed, witness our smiles.
Those bonnie birds mimic our oaths
That fall from hence our trembling throats.

But for thine roses, spare such trouble.
I care not for their scented bubble.
I’d rather bask in my lover’s musk,
Than catch the scent of flowery dusk.

And as your love, I’ll wear not much,
So take advantage of love’s touch.
Thus woolen garments, grant me not.
And should my feet winter besot,

Be sure that I your heat employ
To warm me inside out. Enjoy
My narrow girth, make me your bun.
I plan to grant to thee a son.

But speak no more of worldly gain,
Lest our true-blooded hearts we stain.
Take more delight in winning love,
Than having bought it like a glove.

(This poem was written by Cat and posted here with her permission.)

Jean Honore Fragonard. Shepherdess (1752). Wikimedia Commons

Students in my Brit Lit I class continue to totally smack down Marlowe’s love sick shepherd, while I stand by nervously splitting infinitives. This witty response was penned by Chris and reprinted here with his permission.

But Blame Not Me for Greed

I’ll live with you, and be thy love,
but first, here’s what I need, my doove,
from mole-hill (your hill), yard and hearth,
to take up root in your spare earth.

The scene you set for us is nice.
The rhyme is pure (a cute device).
I love the birds, the setting sparse,
but keep the rocks for your hard arse.

A rosy bed, you will indeed
make, but blame not me for greed.
Lovely flowers, yeah, that’s sweet dear…
how about a poem from Shakespeare!

Gowns are nice but I want posy,
and happy, I, that you chose me,
but really man, a lamb? slaughter?
Steal some verse! (you really oughter).

Yours is just a bit pastoral,
tight, but loose about the moral.
even Raleigh, and all his ilk
question your tongue. (It’s curdled milk!)

Now truly, doove, you’re a hotty.
Else why would I share my body?
But, empty words are this: nothin’.
What they’ll get you? Ask my husband.

Young Shepherdess by William Adolphe Bourgeureau, Wikimedia Commons

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dr. Durant’s Brit Lit I class has been crafting answers to Christopher Marlowe’s passionate shepherd. Here is Daniel’s reply, reprinted here with his permission:

A Reply to the Shepherd

To live with you while shepherd’s sing,

Will happen if you give a ring.

I live with no, small callow man

Who thinks he can o’er come my plans.

 

A gown of the finest young wool

Has never been my lifelong goal.

A cap of flowers won’t keep me warm,

Nor keep me safe from fear or harm.

 

We can sit by still cool waters.

Until when? I bare a daughter?

How quickly you will run away

When my use to you starts to fray.

 

The May morning you preach about

Will never come, I have no doubt.

October is the dawn that comes,

If my love I allow succumb.

 

Birds, woods, rivers and Ivy buds,

Is just a total line of crud.

It’s only after time I sing,

Time that proves the worth of your ring.

 

Beds of roses do I dream

But I won’t fall for your dumb scheme.

I look to the time when I will sing,

As soon as I get that damn ring.

(Illustration: Hans Thoma (German, 19th century), "Under Olive Trees near Tivoli," 1880, from Thomas: Des Meisters Gemälde in 874 Abbildungen, Stuttgart, 1909.)

Dr. Durant’s Brit Lit students are studying Elizabethan-era prosody and deciding whether they’re going to take Marlowe’s passionate shepherd up on his offer. See Marlowe’s poem here. Bob’s reply is printed with his permission.

What dare I say, to words this dear,

my heart my pride, to each I hear.

That I could roam, through nature’s wonder;

tho’ alas with thee, is this blunder?

 

Will shepherds sheep and rivers run,

fill my senses, as would the sun?

And water’s movement soften thee,

to sing and call thy love for me.

 

A bed so soft that you may pick,

with petals full, or thorns that prick?

My head adrift in leaves of bliss;

so naught will seem to be amiss.

 

A dress from you to buy my touch;

the lambs grow cold, my heart as such.

My feet will sink in slippers gold;

for lewd suggestions made so bold.

 

A belt of iron to keep me chaste

With buckles tight you will be last;

to hold me close and feel me swoon

more chance to you to love a loon.

 

Then be your love and live with you

delights me less, cold winds that blew;

I’ll shout from trees to mountain high.

to live with you, I’d rather die.

Colorado Pete with a knitting machine, at the Woodmen Sanatorium near Colorado Springs, Colorado, 1923.

Professor Lawrence Moe has published a book making available for the first time the life and work of a virtually unknown figure from Midwestern literary history. “Colorado Pete” is the pen name of a Minnesotan named Arthur Owen Peterson (1896-1932). He was raised in Bagley and attended Carleton College before joining the US Army to serve in France during World War I. And for that he paid a price, as Dr. Moe has written:

“He wasn’t wounded by enemy fire, but he was wounded. Amoebic dysentery was the most clear and immediate problem, but there was something else, perhaps in his present and certainly in his future. From this time forward Arthur’s life would be characterized by a cycle, a grim and terrible cycle: a period of health and energy, followed by a very different period of sickness and suffering. And that second period gradually took over.” read more »