To His Coy Mistress (1652)
[...] But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity [...]
The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives The Flower (1937)
[...] The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime [...]
I've been thinking about these two poems a decent bit lately. I like them both a lot, and would probably, if it were not totally boring and useless to try to analyze a poem, make a long-winded and possibly fallacious argument that they're about the same thing ("let's make out! we'll be dead soon!"), although where Marvell's take is sweet and horny and rhymey and a little twee, Dylan Thomas makes it a total drag. A circuitous, beautifully-worded drag.
I admit, I do appreciate any and all reminders about this concept, because the fact that life is short, and diems ought to be carpe'd, is never far from the front of my brain. I think these will probably be the next two poems I memorize.
And while I'm in the "remember to do as much as you can while you're here enjoying the crazy-ass planet" brainframe, I signed up to learn aerial silks. This is something I've wanted to do ever since I first learned that aerial silks were a thing that existed in the world. What's kept me from it? Time/money? Sure, those. The easy excuses. Anyway, that's happening. I'll let you know how it goes, if I don't totally FALL and DIE.
Isadora Duncan, Patron Saint of death by scarf.