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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419676" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Elegy IX: The Autumnal</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace<br> As I have seen in one autumnal face.<br>Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape,<br> This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape.<br>If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame;<br> Affection here takes reverence's name.<br>Were her first years the golden age? That's true,<br> But now she's gold oft tried and ever new.<br>That was her torrid and inflaming time,<br> This is her tolerable tropic clime.<br>Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,<br> He in a fever wishes pestilence.<br>Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were,<br> They were Love's graves, for else he is no where.<br>Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit<br> Vow'd to this trench, like an anachorit;<br>And here till hers, which must be his death, come,<br> He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.<br>Here dwells he; though he sojourn ev'rywhere<br> In progress, yet his standing house is here:<br>Here where still evening is, not noon nor night,<br> Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight.<br>In all her words, unto all hearers fit,<br> You may at revels, you at council, sit.<br>This is Love's timber, youth his underwood;<br> There he, as wine in June, enrages blood,<br>Which then comes seasonabliest when our taste<br> And appetite to other things is past.<br>Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the platan tree,<br> Was lov'd for age, none being so large as she,<br>Or else because, being young, nature did bless<br> Her youth with age's glory, barrenness.<br>If we love things long sought, age is a thing<br> Which we are fifty years in compassing;<br>If transitory things, which soon decay,<br> Age must be loveliest at the latest day.<br>But name not winter faces, whose skin's slack,<br> Lank as an unthrift's purse, but a soul's sack;<br>Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade;<br> Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made;<br>Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,<br> To vex their souls at resurrection:<br>Name not these living death's-heads unto me,<br> For these, not ancient, but antique be.<br>I hate extremes, yet I had rather stay<br> With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.<br>Since such love's natural lation is, may still<br> My love descend, and journey down the hill,<br>Not panting after growing beauties. So,<br> I shall ebb on with them who homeward go.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Donne">John Donne</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419676" data-title="Elegy IX: The Autumnal de John Donne" data-description="No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
 As I have seen in one autumnal face.
Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape,
 This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape.
If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame;
 Affection here take..."></div>
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