About 45 years ago my father had a standing offer of $50 to any of his kids who could memorize and recite “Elegy” to him. He thought it was a great poem. (And I agree). Finally, bored on a winter break from college I took up the challenge and collected the $50. I can still remember much of it, but I will never forget the smile on his face when I recited the final stanza. For all the normal kinds of grief I gave him growing up, I’m comforted that I could also give him that satisfaction.
Okay, I've got a baker's dozen open tabs to catch up on in the morrow. It was two thirty five; it is now four fifty seven. Back to the business of sleeping.
And what, pray, is this single word for “the contemplation of dust.”? "The Ruin" had instantly popped in my head, so I was already primed for Anglo-Saxon. :-)
My late Brother wrote to me upon returning our parents house after they both had passed a week a apart the house is full and yet so empty.. In the Heart of Sorrow even the Full is Hollow.
I appreciate the work that Douglas Murray does. That said, I will be the dissenting voice concerning Thomas Gray.
His best poem was "Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes" (1747). My wife shrieks in horror (and covers the cat's ears) whenever I read the poem outloud:
I remember reading that also in my mother's college English lit anthology from circa 1940. It was next to the Elegy, and it seemed a bit jarring to me as a kid.
Gray's Elegy was pronounced "the finest poem in the English language" by Miss Langridge, my sainted high school English teacher long, long ago, so it must be so. She encouraged us to make a pilgrimage one day to the Church of St Giles in Stoke Poges outside London, which was the scene Gray described. So of course I have done this. The church is still open for business.
But I believe Mr. Murrray has overlooked an important message. Yes, the poem is about the inevitability of death and how wealth and power are no protection. What Gray also says is that the rural folk buried there were precluded by the humble circumstances of their birth from any chance of attaining power or wealth, and those of the wealthier classes should not look down on them.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
I suggest that there is also a warning, no? The recorded snippet works on many levels.... What could I have accomplished had I been more attentive to my own life? What manner of gifts were wasted in the desert of having been born to an unfortunate time and/or place? Or simply aborted? It seems that loss of the spiritual and of the numinous is huge... If there is no Higher Purpose, why not be the biggest baddest lemming?
About 45 years ago my father had a standing offer of $50 to any of his kids who could memorize and recite “Elegy” to him. He thought it was a great poem. (And I agree). Finally, bored on a winter break from college I took up the challenge and collected the $50. I can still remember much of it, but I will never forget the smile on his face when I recited the final stanza. For all the normal kinds of grief I gave him growing up, I’m comforted that I could also give him that satisfaction.
Mr. Douglas, I will never meet you but thank you for helping me appreciate poetry.
My favorite poem of this type is "Spring and Fall" by Gerard Manley Hopkins:
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
“And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass”
― Ezra Pound
Okay, I've got a baker's dozen open tabs to catch up on in the morrow. It was two thirty five; it is now four fifty seven. Back to the business of sleeping.
Thank you Douglas for another breath of fresh air.
Thank you
And what, pray, is this single word for “the contemplation of dust.”? "The Ruin" had instantly popped in my head, so I was already primed for Anglo-Saxon. :-)
Rather than fit "Elegy" into a little summary box, why not simply read it?
https://www.poetsgraves.co.uk/Classic%20Poems/Gray/elegy_written_in_a_country_churc.htm
That is what Douglas intends you do, I think. ;-)
Love this column. Truth glorified is God revealed.
Li Po
The Cold under my foot
My Dead Wife's Iron Comb.
My late Brother wrote to me upon returning our parents house after they both had passed a week a apart the house is full and yet so empty.. In the Heart of Sorrow even the Full is Hollow.
My mortality teaches my humanity.
I appreciate the work that Douglas Murray does. That said, I will be the dissenting voice concerning Thomas Gray.
His best poem was "Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes" (1747). My wife shrieks in horror (and covers the cat's ears) whenever I read the poem outloud:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44302/ode-on-the-death-of-a-favourite-cat-drowned-in-a-tub-of-goldfishes
I remember reading that also in my mother's college English lit anthology from circa 1940. It was next to the Elegy, and it seemed a bit jarring to me as a kid.
Tah very muchly! It is ALL golden. ;-)
We don't need a soundtrack of strings over the reading.
Exquisite as always.
Gray's Elegy was pronounced "the finest poem in the English language" by Miss Langridge, my sainted high school English teacher long, long ago, so it must be so. She encouraged us to make a pilgrimage one day to the Church of St Giles in Stoke Poges outside London, which was the scene Gray described. So of course I have done this. The church is still open for business.
But I believe Mr. Murrray has overlooked an important message. Yes, the poem is about the inevitability of death and how wealth and power are no protection. What Gray also says is that the rural folk buried there were precluded by the humble circumstances of their birth from any chance of attaining power or wealth, and those of the wealthier classes should not look down on them.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Job jobbed then. Douglas MEANT you to read the WHOLE bloody thing! And bloody good it is. :-)
I suggest that there is also a warning, no? The recorded snippet works on many levels.... What could I have accomplished had I been more attentive to my own life? What manner of gifts were wasted in the desert of having been born to an unfortunate time and/or place? Or simply aborted? It seems that loss of the spiritual and of the numinous is huge... If there is no Higher Purpose, why not be the biggest baddest lemming?