Cento Thursday Of Doom
Happy New Year, everyone! I hope both tonight’s party and the year ahead are wonderful and uplifting experiences. In keeping with the spirit of the day, this week’s Thursday Centos are almost universally about death. (It wasn’t deliberate, I swear. They just came out that way. Maybe the Generator is overloaded with depressing verse.) I have arranged them into something of a sequence.
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Her present image floats into the mind –
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one.
Now at the last gasp of love’s latest breath,
When faith is kneeling by his bed of death
He hangs between; in doubt, to act or rest;
And e’en the dearest, that I loved the best
– Soon, and the soul will mourn in other breasts:
To-morrow it will hie on far behests.
And so the time-lag teases me with how
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune:
The world is too much with us; late and soon.
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart
I all alone beweep my outcast state;
Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part:
A being darkly wise, and rudely great
They also serve who only stand and wait.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
How could I seek the empty world again?
Created half to rise, and half to fall
Enters our hearts, that small familiar pain:
The darkness and the thunder and the rain.
Darkness outside. Inside, the radio’s prayer:
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
My uncle’s sword is hanging in the hall
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all –
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Bear them we can, and if we can we must,
The troubles of our proud and angry dust;
But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished.
The body is not bruised to pleasure soul
As recollection or the drug decide:
But thine eternal summer shall not fade;
Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.