Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE CALM [CALME], by JOHN DONNE Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Our storm is past, and that storm's tyrannous rage Last Line: I should not then thus feele this miserie. Variant Title(s): Early Verse Letters: The Calm Subject(s): Sea; Storms; Ocean | ||||||||
Our storme is past, and that storms tyrannous rage, A stupid calme, but nothing it, doth swage. The fable is inverted, and farre more A blocke afflicts, now, then a storke before. Stormes chafe, and soone weare out themselves, or us; In calmes, Heaven laughs to see us languish thus. As steady'as I can wish, that my thoughts were, Smooth as thy mistresse glasse, or what shines there, The sea is now. And, as the Iles which wee Seeke, when wee can move, our ships rooted bee. As water did in stormes, now pitch runs out: As lead, when a fir'd Church becomes one spout. And all our beauty, and our trimme, decayes, Like courts removing, or like ended playes. The fighting place now seamens ragges supply; And all the tackling is a frippery. No use of lanthornes; and in one place lay Feathers and dust, to day and yesterday. Earths hollownesses, which the worlds lungs are, Have no more winde then the upper valt of aire. We can nor lost friends, nor sought foes recover, But meteorlike, save that wee move not, hover. Onely the Calenture together drawes Deare friends, which meet dead in great fishes jawes: And on the hatches as on Altars lyes Each one, his owne Priest, and owne Sacrifice. Who live, that miracle do multiply Where walkers in hot Ovens, doe not dye. If in despite of these, wee swimme, that hath No more refreshing, then our brimstone Bath, But from the sea, into the ship we turne, Like parboyl'd wretches, on the coales to burne. Like Bajazet encag'd, the shepheards scoffe, Or like slacke sinew'd Sampson, his haire off, Languish our ships. Now, as a Miriade Of Ants, durst th'Emperours lov'd snake invade, The crawling Gallies, Sea-goales, finny chips, Might brave our Pinnaces, now bed-ridde ships. Whether a rotten state, and hope of gaine, Or to disuse mee from the queasie paine Of being belov'd, and loving, or the thirst Of honour, or faire death, out pusht mee first, I lose my end: for here as well as I A desperate may live, and a coward die. Stagge, dogge, and all which from, or towards flies, Is paid with life, or pray, or doing dyes. Fate grudges us all, and doth subtly lay A scourge, 'gainst which wee all forget to pray, He that at sea prayes for more winde, as well Under the poles may begge cold, heat in hell. What are wee then? How little more alas Is man now, then before he was? he was Nothing; for us, wee are for nothing fit; Chance, or our selves still disproportion it. Wee have no power, no will, no sense; I lye, I should not then thus feele this miserie. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HALL OF OCEAN LIFE by JOHN HOLLANDER JULY FOURTH BY THE OCEAN by ROBINSON JEFFERS BOATS IN A FOG by ROBINSON JEFFERS CONTINENT'S END by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE FIGUREHEAD by LEONIE ADAMS A HYMN TO CHRIST, AT THE AUTHOR'S LAST GOING INTO GERMANY by JOHN DONNE |
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