File spoon-archives/phillitcrit.archive/phillitcrit_1997/phillitcrit.9711, message 478


Date: Sun, 09 Nov 1997 20:24:15 -0800
From: "Thad Q. Alexander" <rattler-AT-inreach.net>
Subject: Re: PLC: Song of Myself




BTW, below in stanza 3, line 6 could this be a literary allusion to "The
Leach Gatherer?" I believe I have that title correct and I can't seem to
remember the poet either, but It keeps coming up when I read this. Just a
guess. sorry!

"And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths,
  (No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.)

  I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,
  O suns- O grass of graves- O perpetual transfers and promotions,
  If you do not say any thing how can I say any thing?

  Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,
  Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight,
  Toss, sparkles of day and dusk- toss on the black stems that decay
     in the muck,
  Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.

  I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night,
  I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams reflected,
  And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or
     small.

     50

--
Thad Q. Alexander
(rattler-AT-inreach.net)
OCC Undergraduate
Long Beach, CA.
USA
---
CHAUCER-AT-listserv.uic.edu
Phillitcrit-AT-jefferson.village.Virginia.EDU
Phil-lit-AT-Was found morally unfit for my presence:11\3\97
SHAKSPER-AT-ws.bowiestate.edu
Great Books of Western Civilization
---
For him was lever han at his beddes hed
A twenty bokes, clothed in black or red,
Of Aristotle, and his philosophie,
Than robes riche, or fidel, or sautrie.
But all be that he was a philosophre,
Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre.
 ---Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales


HTML VERSION:

BTW, below in stanza 3, line 6 could this be a literary allusion to "The Leach Gatherer?" I believe I have that title correct and I can't seem to remember the poet either, but It keeps coming up when I read this. Just a guess. sorry!

"And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths,
  (No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.)

  I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,
  O suns- O grass of graves- O perpetual transfers and promotions,
  If you do not say any thing how can I say any thing?

  Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,
  Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight,
  Toss, sparkles of day and dusk- toss on the black stems that decay
     in the muck,
  Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.

  I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night,
  I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams reflected,
  And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or
     small.

     50

--
Thad Q. Alexander
(rattler-AT-inreach.net)
OCC Undergraduate
Long Beach, CA.
USA
---
CHAUCER-AT-listserv.uic.edu
Phillitcrit-AT-jefferson.village.Virginia.EDU
Phil-lit-AT-Was found morally unfit for my presence:11\3\97
SHAKSPER-AT-ws.bowiestate.edu
Great Books of Western Civilization
---
For him was lever han at his beddes hed
A twenty bokes, clothed in black or red,
Of Aristotle, and his philosophie,
Than robes riche, or fidel, or sautrie.
But all be that he was a philosophre,
Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre.
 ---Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales
  --- from list phillitcrit-AT-lists.village.virginia.edu ---


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