Antiquus, where art thou?

Apparently the old mainstay of the Kindlings blog has better things to do than produce extended musings on literature, politics and culture. I hope he has some good excuse, like getting conned out of all his money in a Dublin pub and being unable to afford an internet connection. Too bad. I'll try to start filling the massive void Antiquus has left by posting some literary inspiration, a good poem or link at least once a week. Our "sketchpad" has fallen to the wayside for now, but why not toss in some genuinely dead poets to fire up our tardy muses?

Today I'll leave you with one of my favorite carpe diem poems, "To His Coy Mistress," by Andrew Marvell. Arowbee might pick up some good lines from this poem - for some reason I think it suits his thematic interests.

In convincing his mistress of the urgency of love-making, Marvell paints eternity as a vast desert, where physical beauty is eradicated rather than perfected. So much for the new Heaven and the new Earth, I guess. Marvell should have picked up better theology, being raised by a Church of England clergyman...

T.S. Eliot, a fan of these metaphysicals as most of you know, alludes to the "roll our universe into a ball" passage in his own "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."

But enough fun facts. I'll post the poem. If you've got the time, read and enjoy. We won't discuss it unless someone really wants to. Oh, while I'm on the topic of discussion, whose idea was it to read and discuss that Orwell essay, anyhow? Whoever it was sure wasn't there, ready to talk about it. For shame!

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	5
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.	10
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,	15
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.	20
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,	25
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:	30
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	35
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.	40
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	45
Stand still, yet we will make him run.