These three love poems share the same basic situation and theme: a male speaker addresses a female (in the first poem it is a type of female) urging that love should not be delayed because time is short. This theme is as familiar in poetry as it is in life. In Latin this tradition is known as carpe diem, “seize the day.” Notice how the poets’ diction helps create a distinctive tone in each poem, even though the subject matter and central ideas are similar (although not identical) in all three.
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today, Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
The next poem was also written in the seventeenth century, but it includes some words that have changed in usage and meaning over the past three hundred years. The title of Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress” requires some explanation. “Mistress” does not refer to a married man’s illicit lover but to a woman who is loved and courted — a sweetheart. Marvell uses “coy” to describe a woman who is reserved and shy rather than coquettish or flirtatious. Often such shifts in meanings over time are explained in the notes that accompany reprintings of poems. You should keep in mind, however, that it is helpful to have a reasonably thick dictionary available when you are reading poetry. The most thorough is the Oxford English Dictionary (OED), which provides histories of words. The OED is a multivolume leviathan, but there are other useful unabridged dictionaries and desk dictionaries and many are available online.
Knowing a word’s original meaning can also enrich your understanding of why a contemporary poet chooses a particular word. In “Design,” Robert Frost raises provocative questions about the nature of evil and the existence of God in his dark examination of a moth’s death, all presented in unexpected images of whiteness. He ends the poem with a series of questions concerning what causes “death and blight,” wondering if it is a “design of darkness to appall” or no design at all, a universe informed only by random meaninglessness. Frost’s precise contemporary use of “appall” captures the sense of consternation and dismay that such a frightening contemplation of death might evoke, but a dictionary reveals some further relevant insights. The dictionary’s additional information about the history of appall shows us why it is the perfect word to establish the overwhelming effect of the poem. The word comes from the Middle English appallen, meaning “to grow faint,” and in Old French apalir means “to grow pale” or white. These meanings reinforce the powerful sense of death buried in the images of whiteness throughout the poem. Moreover, Frost’s “appall” also echoes a funereal pall, or coffin, allowing the word to bear even more connotative weight. Knowing the origin of appall gives us the full heft of the poet’s word choice.
Although some of the language in “To His Coy Mistress” requires annotations for the modern reader, this poem continues to serve as a powerful reminder that time is a formidable foe, even for lovers.
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’1 side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber2 would complain.3 I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow4
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,
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.
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,
Nor in thy marble vault shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honor turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
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 transpires5
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-chapped6 power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough7 the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
The third in this series of carpe diem poems is a twenty-first-century work. The language of Ann Lauinger’s “Marvell Noir” is more immediately accessible than that of Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress”; an ordinary dictionary will quickly identify any words unfamiliar to a reader. But the title might require an online search or a dictionary of biography for the reference to Marvell, as well as a dictionary of allusions to provide a succinct description that explains the reference to film noir. An allusion is a brief cultural reference to a person, a place, a thing, an event, or an idea in history or literature. Allusive words, like connotative words, are both suggestive and economical; poets use allusions to conjure up biblical authority, scenes from Shakespeare’s plays, historic figures, wars, great love stories, and anything else that might serve to deepen and enrich their own work. The title of “Marvell Noir” makes two allusions that an ordinary dictionary may not explain, because it alludes to Marvell’s most famous poem, “To His Coy Mistress,” and to dark crime films (noir is “black” in French) of the 1940s that were often filmed in black and white featuring tough-talking, cynical heroes — such as those portrayed by Humphrey Bogart — and hardened, cold women — like the characters played by Joan Crawford. Lauinger assumes that her reader will understand the allusions.
Allusions imply reading and cultural experiences shared by the poet and the reader. Literate audiences once had more in common than they do today because more people had similar economic, social, and educational backgrounds. But a judicious use of specialized dictionaries, encyclopedias, and online reference tools such as Google Search can help you decipher allusions that grow out of this body of experience. As you read more, you’ll be able to make connections based on your own experiences with literature. In a sense, allusions make available what other human beings have deemed worth remembering, and that is certainly an economical way of supplementing and enhancing your own experience.
Lauinger’s version of the carpe diem theme follows. What strikes you as particularly modern about it?
Sweetheart, if we had the time,
A week in bed would be no crime.
I’d light your Camels, pour your Jack;
You’d do shiatsu on my back.
When you got up to scramble eggs,
I’d write a sonnet to your legs,
And you could watch my stubble grow.
Yes, gorgeous, we’d take it slow.
I’d hear the whole sad tale again:
A roadhouse band; you can’t trust men;
He set you up; you had to eat,
And bitter with the bittersweet
Was what they dished you; Ginger lied;
You weren’t there when Sanchez died;
You didn’t know the pearls were fake…
Aw, can it, sport! Make no mistake,
You’re in it, doll, up to your eyeballs!
Tears? Please! You’ll dilute our highballs,
And make that angel face a mess
For the nice Lieutenant. I confess
I’m nuts for you — but take the rap?
You must think I’m some other sap!
And, precious, I kind of wish I was.
Well, when they spring you, give a buzz;
Guess I’ll get back to Archie’s wife,
And you’ll get twenty-five to life.
You’ll have time then, more than enough,
To reminisce about the stuff
That dreams are made of, and the men
You suckered. Sadly, in the pen
Your kind of talent goes to waste.
But Irish bars are more my taste
Than iron ones: stripes ain’t my style.
You’re going down; I promise I’ll
Come visit every other year.
Now kiss me, sweet — the squad car’s here.