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User Rating: |
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8.7
/10
(28
votes)
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Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying;
My dog and I are old, too old for roving.
Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying,
Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving.
I take the book and gather to the fire,
Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute
The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire,
Moves a thiun ghost of music in the spinet.
I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander
Your cornland, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys
Ever again, nore share the battle yonder
Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies.
Only stay quiet while my mind remembers
The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers.
Beauty, have pity! for the strong have power,
The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace,
Summer of man its sunlight and its flower.
Spring-time of man, all April in a face.
Only, as in the jostling in the Strand,
Where the mob thrusts, or loiters, or is loud,
The beggar with the saucer in his hand
Asks only a penny from the passing crowd,
So, from this glittering world with all its fashion,
Its fire, and play of men, its stir, its march,
Let me have wisdom, Beauty, wisdom and passion,
Bread to the soul, rain when the summers parch.
Give me but these, and though the darkness close
Even the night will blossom as the rose.
John Masefield
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Read poems about / on: beauty, fire, passion, april, dog, flower, music, summer, spring, beautiful, power, rose, rain, world, night, remember
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Comments about this poem (On Growing Old
by
John Masefield
) |
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comments about this poem (On Growing Old by
John Masefield
)
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Ravi A
(8/13/2009 11:29:00 PM) |
A thoughtful poem and a positive finish. The poem really rings in the mind.
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Michael Pruchnicki
(8/13/2009 4:41:00 PM) |
Put aside the misspellings and your devotion to SPELLCHECK, please, and tell us how someone's error in scanning the poem on the computer 'detracts from the TRUE meaning of the poem'? What do you think the true meaning is, as opposed to a false meaning? Perhaps you were distracted from concentrating, is that it?
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Adeline Foster
(8/13/2009 2:08:00 PM) |
It is wonderful that someone likes these dead masters enough to put their poems on this site. But whoever it is that is typing up these poems, have you not heard of spellcheck? How demeaning to find such a lovely set of sonnets with misspelled words. It detracts from the true meaning of the poem.
Adeline Foster
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Michael Pruchnicki
(8/13/2009 11:23:00 AM) |
A matched pair of sonnets 'On Growing Old' make a meditative and serene comment in mellifluous and melancholy tones suited to the subject. The speaker directs an apostrophe to the personification of an abstract ideal - 'Beauty' which stays long after the vigor of youth has waned. Time flies and takes its toll way too soon, 'The beauty of fire' (vivid youth) is extinguished by 'the beauty of embers' (the ashes of age in an apt metaphor) !
When the passion for life is eroded by the stresses of jostling among the crowds that swarm the streets of London (or New York or wherever!) as time marches on, one is relegated to the role of bystander. Give me wisdom and passion, dimnished though it may be, and I'll settle for these which sustain the soul in times of loss. The poet has translated the 'beauty of fire' into the embers that come to life and blaze and blossom like the fiery red rose in the encroaching night of death!
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Albert Ahearn
(8/13/2009 7:28:00 AM) |
I'm partial to sonnets. This poem has back to back beauties that elevate excitement of my soul. Masefield was and is the quintessence poet. Erato must be proud to have him in her company.
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Kevin Straw
(8/13/2009 5:40:00 AM) |
A great majestic poem, its form reflecting the slow but wisdom-filled pace of ageing. But I doubt the last line 'Even the night will blossom as the rose.'
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Samantha C. Ashley
(8/13/2008 10:58:00 AM) |
way to go this is a wonderful piece of art. keep it up! ! ! !
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John Masefield
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