and (constant stars)

Today is Shakespeare's death day and alleged birthday -- also St. George's day, but that is mostly irrelevant to the point at hand -- and I like to celebrate during National Poetry Month, because I can, and because while my specific interests and concentrations have wandered fairly far afield from the inestimable William Shakespeare, I owe him and his poetry more than I can possibly say. This year, I am branching out from poems about Shakespeare the person to poems about things Shakespeare wrote. I have, of course, posted poems about things Shakespeare wrote before now (earlier this month, in fact: Letter from Elsinore), but I really do like the idea of posting poetic transformative works, especially for and of Shakespeare. This poem is about The Winter's Tale, which is one of my favorite plays.

How soft it rains, how nourishingly soft and green
Has grown the dark humility of this low house
Where sunrise never enters, where I have not seen
The moon by night nor heard the footfall of a mouse,
Nor looked on any face but yours
Nor changed my posture in my place of rest
For fifteen years—oh how this quiet cures
My pain and sucks the burning from my breast.

It sucked out all the poison of my will and drew
All hot rebellion from me, all desire to break
The silence you commanded me. . . . Nothing to do,
Nothing to fear or wish for, not a choice to make,
Only to be; to hear nor more
Cock-crowing duty calling me to rise
But slowly thus to ripen laid in store
In this dim nursery near your watching eyes.

Pardon, great spirit, whose tall shape like a golden tower
Stands over me or seems upon slow wings to move,
Colouring with life my paleness, with returning power,
By sober ministrations of severest love;
Pardon, that when you brought me here,
Still drowned in bitter passion, drugged with life,
I did not know . . . pardon, I thought you were
Paulina, old Antigonus' young wife.

—C. S. Lewis (1898-1963), "Hermione in the House of Paulina" in this case from Poems (Harcourt, 1964, 1992).

And a sonnet, to be going on with. I like Shakespeare's sonnets -- which are way weirder than a lot of people give them credit for -- and unless I post poetry for 150 more years (I have in years past posted sonnets 144, 116, and 29), I will probably never run out of Shakespeare sonnets to post.

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And (constant stars) in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date

—William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnet XIV.

Thanks for everything, Will. Keep on keepin' on.