A few days ago I made a melancholy, if not morbid, remark about time and loss to a young woman. I realized immediately, but of course too late, that it was rather a heavy thing to lay on a young person, and was reminded of this poem by John Crowe Ransom. It was an odd sensation to find myself in the position of the gentleman in the poem. It’s probably still under copyright, but since Ransom has been dead for thirty-five years I think I’ll share it with you (compounding my deficiency of tact, since the young woman is a reader of this blog, but trusting that the quality of the poem compensates):
Piazza Piece
—I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying
To make you hear. Your ears are soft and small
And listen to an old man not at all,
They want the young men’s whispering and sighing.
But see the roses on your trellis dying
And hear the spectral singing of the moon;
For I must have my lovely lady soon,
I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying.—I am a lady young in beauty waiting
Until my truelove comes, and then we kiss.
But what grey man among the vines is this
Whose words are dry and faint as in a dream?
Back from my trellis, Sir, before I scream!
I am a lady young in beauty waiting.—John Crowe Ransom
I’ve never encountered the word “dustcoat” outside of this poem, so I’m not sure exactly what one is, but it certainly sounds appropriate.
I can’t help imagining the man as looking somewhat like those oddly bundled-up Victorian men in Edward Gorey’s drawings.
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