East Coker- Section 2

At the end of the last segment, the poet was reconciled, though reluctantly, to the interminable present. Here, he seems to have domiciled until he leaves the dancing days of summer and enters the natural chaos of November—a month that, in semi-temperate England, anything is possible. Summer creatures still thrive, snowdrops not yet risen from their summer deathbeds, late roses that battle with early snow. It is the verdant version of the eternal all-times the poet sang of in Burnt Norton.

This dance of all seasons is not limited to the earth. The stars turn in their courses, fighting to get one last glimpse of the earth they got to see so briefly. Scorpio, a constellation that bespeaks suffering and malaise is ordered by the Sun, the bringer of all-life, to wind his way thither. The pestilence fights and flees the light. The Sun and the Moon in time eclipse each other, and deprived of their light, comets weep as they cannot find either the sky or the plains. “Whirled in a vortex that shall bring / The world to that destructive fire / Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.” The sun rules the stars but it cannot rule the earth. An earth that is still under death sentence—the whirling dance of the stars brings life, but the passage of time only brings the world closer to the day when it shall pass into dust by ice and flame.

I would be remiss if I did not mention at this point that I have not a clue what I am talking about. And, unlike Cicero, I mean it. I am no Eliot scholar, nor particularly well-read. So, I write my thoughts and speculations firmly in the hope that the reader will forgive my inanities and deepen my expositions.

Now, onward to clueless speculations. The second stanza of the poem is to my mind, inscrutable. The poet seems to be unsatisfied with his own words, “A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion, / Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle / With words and meanings.” He’s attempted to expound the mysteries of the universe in poetry and he has failed.

He asks, “What was to be the value of the lone looked forward to, / Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity / And the wisdom of the age?” What is the point of the hoped for future? Of the calm days before the death of winter? Is the lie in the voice of the wisdom, or is the wisdom itself utterly deceived? “Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?”

Eliot seems to spend the next few lines waffling between a despair of the value of all old knowledge and a condemnation of his ability to see it. In the phrase, “At best, only a limited value / In the knowledge derived from experience. / The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies, / For the pattern is new in every moment.” He makes up his mind, he may not be able to grasp, or even trust, eternal truth, but the dance of life moves too quickly to trust more concrete, experience-won knowledge. He speaks again of deceiving, but only to say that the eternal wisdom only undeceives us of that which wasn’t worth knowing.

Yet, in this maze of deceiving and undeceiving, he steps once more into the wood between the worlds, and in that world “On the edge of the grimpen, where is no secure foothold, / And menaced by monsters, fancy lights, / Risking enchantment.” It is in this wood he finds his answer to the conflicts of many wisdoms. The secret is not lost in time, it is not found in experience or in the accomplishments of all sages. Rather, it is found in their folly, and through their folly, their humility.

Unlike all human strengths and musings, “humility is endless.”

When all the houses have fallen to dust, when all the dancers leave the wood, humility is all that remains.

East Coker I -- Marriage and the Mystery

At the end of Burnt Norton, Eliot binds past, present, and future into one glorious Present. Yet, in the beginning of East Coker, he seems to reach a spiritual crisis—in sum, as he reconciles himself to a beginning he sees it as a death sentence. “In my beginning is my end” is the poet’s first cry, and from there he dissects the entire material world into their unbeautiful base elements.

It is a dismal picture—houses, homes, even in their genesis are reduced to dust. Old stone bows to the recycling of time and become earth, and all is reduced to “flesh, fur, and faeces.” He ends the first stanza in a depressed recitation of Ecclesiastes:

Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And a time to shake the wainscot where the field mouse trots
And the shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto

It’s not pretty.

Yet, in the midst of this dim reflection on the ultimate death of all things the author has not given up hope. He faces this specter of death and works methodically towards the jobs and joys of this doomed moment. First, by breaking himself loose from the present vision he allows himself to once more hear the music of the spheres. “If you do not come to close, / On a summer midnight, you can hear the music / Of the weak pipe and the little drum.”

This music leads him to one of the most, arguably the most important human duty to the present life, “dancing around the bonfire, / The association of man and woman / in dausinge, signifying matrimonie-- / a dignified and commodious sacrament.” It is interesting to note that Eliot chose to refer to the ancient rite of marriage through the words of Edmund Spenser...a poet who in his Faerie Queen made it a point to ally the human dance of man and wife with the heavenly dance of Christ and Church. In “this two and two, necessarye coniunction,” Eliot sees both the hope for the present and the point of the future. United in earth, we live to be united with Christ. We unite in earth to show us how to unite in Christ.

This concord is born of the greatest of all celestial delights, yet is spun of the lowliest of earthly joys. Rustic joys: clumsy dancing and good earth, keeping the time and tasks of the seasons. Only here, does the author acquire the proper Ecclesiastical spirit where there is “the time of the seasons and the constellations / the time of milking and the time of harvest.”

In the single day of existence, he realizes there is always the hope of the new dawn. There is a preparation for the end, but even as he faces wrinkles and old age, Eliot says, “I am here / Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.”

Happy Memories

When Father Carves the Duck

E. V. Wright

We all look on with anxious eyes
When father carves the duck,
And mother almost always sighs
When father carves the duck;

Then all of us prepare to rise,
And hold our bibs before our eyes,
And be prepared for some surprise,
When father carves the duck.

He braces up and grabs a fork
Whene'er he carves a duck,
And won't allow a soul to talk
Until he's carved the duck.

The fork is jabbed into the sides,
Across the breast the knife he slides,
While every careful person hides
From flying chips of duck.

The platter's always sure to slip
When father carves a duck,
And how it makes the dishes skip!
Potatoes fly amuck!

The squash and cabbage leap in space,
We get some gravy in our face,
And father mutters a Hindoo grace
Whene'er he carves a duck.

We then have learned to walk around
The dining room and pluck
From off the window-sills and walls
Our share of father's duck.

While father growls and blows and jaws
And swears the knife was full of flaws,
And mother laughs at him because
He couldn't carve a duck.


HT: To Kristen, who introduced me to this poem.

Burnt Norton, Section III, and IV

Long overdue they are, but here be the analysis of Burnt Norton Sections III and IV.  Good news, we are almost to East Coker.

A recurring theme of the work seems to be “time present and time past” the contemplation of the past accompanied, or inspired by, the swift-flowing insolvency of the present. While the present is vivid, it is moving too swiftly to provide rest or answers. The past, is captured in staccato images—images that mix the beatific with the mundane, “garlic and sapphires in the mud.” Artistically, there is nothing to capture the poet in the past or the present; he must chase the future. Here, “is a place of disaffection…neither daylight / investing form with lucid stillness / nor darkness to purify the soul.” The scene is reminiscent of Dante’s Paradise for Pagans. There is a loveliness to it, but the scene is haunted by an incompleteness, a sense that so much more beauty would be possible, if you could only see the Sun. But, there is hope, this poet can and will strive for the Son. In an almost Siddharthic cleansing, the empty whirl of time and image are “emptying the sensual with deprivation / cleansing affection from the temporal / neither plenitude nor vacancy.”

Also, as in Limbo, the poet is not alone. In the congestion of nothing he is accompanied by people—or is it memories?—all filled with the same yearning, yet chasing it in different directions. “Distracted from distraction by distraction” like an over-caffeinated student writing a paper in the early morning, they get distracted from the bunny trails to chase the bunny trails, all the while forgetting that they were supposed to be hunting bear. They are reduced to “Men and bits of paper, whirled by a cold wind / that blows before and time after.” They yearn for the future, they can’t escape the past, but they so frantically chase the present that they drive themselves into the echoing dark. The wind of the present sweeps through London, consequently through all the world. Yet still, it is not an entirely unfriendly wind, or an empty darkness, “this twittering world” is still alive.

As the wind leaves London, so the poet leaves the present, physical world. He leaves the crowd, leaves the light, and descends from Limbo to the world that isn’t even a world—one might even say hell—the place of no light, no substance, no senses, no company, no spirit, not even an imagination—truly hell for the poet. The hell is not like Dante’s, not one of an excess of sensitivity, but an absence of all things. By an absolute stillness “while the world moves / in appetency, on its metalled ways / of time past and time future.”

But while the poet descends to the depths, where is “the twittering world”? It continues on, by custom and the natural order, where “time and the bell have buried the day.” This nightfall of sunfall will not follow the poet into the Stygian depths. The sunflower does not worship the ground, and the clematis clings only to the tallest trees. Yew, the ever-faithful wood, even it refuses to follow. Yet one thing of the natural world remains….the light still remains.

Burnt Norton, Section III, and IV

Analysis to follow, by the Grace of God.

III

Here is a place of disaffection
Time before and time after
In a dim light: neither daylight
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
With slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
Over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
That blows before and after time,
Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
Time before and time after.
Eructation of unhealthy souls
Into the faded air, the torpid
Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.

Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
World not world, but that which is not world,
Internal darkness, deprivation
And destitution of all property,
Desiccation of the world of sense,
Evacuation of the world of fancy,
Inoperancy of the world of spirit;
This is the one way, and the other
Is the same, not in movement
But abstention from movement; while the world moves
In appetency, on its metalled ways
Of time past and time future.



IV

Time and the bell have buried the day,
The black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?

Chill
Fingers of yew be curled
Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.

Delights of "A Clear Midnight"

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,

Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,

Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,

Night, sleep, death, and the stars.

Walt Whitman, “A Clear Midnight”

From its first phrase, “A Clear Midnight” builds an aura of wonder. Whitman carefully develops the mood to lift the soul in contemplation. But, how does this short poem so easily move one to quiet meditation? Elements are the key. Every letter is perfectly chosen to fit the mood of a line. After establishing the poem’s quiet, elevated mood in the first line, the next three move the reader from the excitement of activity to the peace of meditation. A true master, Whitman uses the elements of sound and rhetorical devices to delight and inspire the reader’s own soul.

In the first clause, Whitman creates a hushed setting. Entirely lacking mute consonants, “This is thy hour O Soul” (line 1) impresses the reader with a quiet and gentle ambiance. While the liquid letters establish a peaceful tone for the poem, the words inspire a meditative mood in the reader. Whitman begins contemplation of abstract truth with a direct address to the intangible soul. Combined with soft sounds of the consonants and long vowels, the elevated language of “O Soul” works from the quiet setting and lifts the reader into meditation.

The rise is punctuated and confirmed by the emphasis on “flight.” In the first line, only “flight” ends with a consonantal mute, while the other words are full of vowels, liquids and semivowels. Even the other two stops in “into” and “wordless” are softened by vowels and gentler consonants. According to Mary Oliver, “Within a line, use of a mute sound is like a tiny swoon, a mini-caesura” (Oliver 61). As the reader is forced to pause at the end of the word, he is given time to picture the implied metaphor. The alliteration in “free flight” ties the words together and brings up the traditional metaphor of the soul as a dove. By using slightly more powerful letters in the second phrase, Whitman and further lifts the reader’s thoughts builds up his exhilaration.

The second line builds off this energy to move the reader out of pressures and distractions. With a long vowel in “away,” Whitman places a distance between the soul and the business of the day. This is also emphasized his avoidance of mentioning the word “soul” in the line. Without even a pronoun reference, the soul is completely disconnected from both the line and the demanding work it represents. Whitman establishes the day’s agitation with heavy mutes in “books” and “art.” The oppressive consonants build the feeling that if the soul does not escape, books and art will trample it. Whitman demonstrates this detachment with the line’s ending. As the d’s enclose “day erased,” one can see the whole day closed and put away just like a book. At midnight, the soul leaves all distractions and finishes the day. Even so, another mute consonant in “done” emphasizes the break from stress while the liquid n closes both the line and the reader’s mouth. Whitman builds up the antagonistic energy with the power of mutes and uses the visual absence of the soul to argue that, as in the line, the soul must break with the day’s pressure and fly away to the quiet of midnight to meditate.

After establishing the flight from the cares of the day, Whitman transitions back to the soul and its meditation by returning to the softer voiced “Thee” and “thou.” With the opening vowels and consonant clusters he presents a fall from the forceful energy in the second line. Mary Oliver explains that liquids “suggest softness, fluency, motion” while a mute “is an enforcer of the self-containment, and so the certainty, of what has been said” (Oliver 61). Thus, the rest of the line returns to the initial sense of quiet elation by swelling the energy from the opening th’s to the gentler g’s within “emerging” to the hard t’s closing “lovest best.” In the description of the soul, one word stands out from the parallel –ing suffixes. “Silent” is not only set apart from the balance, but its t ending also helps to elevate it above the rest of the line. Like “wordless” from the first line, it hits on the poem’s main point. When the soul is engaged in meditation, it has no words to describe the beauty it contemplates.

As it rebuilds a meditative mood, the third line also returns to a more cheerful attitude. Whitman develops the thoughtfulness by using increasingly more forceful words. Yet, even with more stops, as in “gazing” and “pondering,” only the t’s particularly stand out. As the line ends, several technical devices focus the reader’s attention on the last two words. Once again, the reader lingers over the words because of the mutes’ natural pause. Furthermore, the slight rhyme ties together “lovest best” and multiplies the impact of the pleasant word and positive superlative. These devices effect a happy feeling as the soul fully embarks on its journey of wondering meditation.

The poem’s upward flight reaches its crescendo in Whitman’s final line. Fittingly, each of the beginning three words has a natural punch from a consonantal mute. Since they are the substance of the soul’s contemplation, “night,” “sleep,” and “death” rightly stand out from the rest of the poem. The hard consonants, however, also set them apart from the rest of the line and emphasize their significance. But, the stops only symbolize the weight that each word carries in its own meaning and the silence inherent in each. Although the first few words of the line hit the reader with their quiet heaviness, Whitman does not leave the reader depressed and weighed down. Rather, he ends the poem on a pleasant note.

The very last word perfectly encapsulates Whitman’s excellent use of words and sounds. In the end, Whitman again lightens and elevates the mood by metaphorically lifting the reader’s gaze to “the stars.” The final word inspires the soul in its meditative hour to think of great things outside itself. Here is the full culmination of the poem as the reader saying the last a in “stars” physically drops his jaw like the soul in silent wondering meditation in “A Clear Midnight.” Thus, Whitman proves his masterful use of sounds and letters, which gives the poem its inspirational power and encourages the reader to join the soul’s contemplative wonder.

Works Cited

Oliver, Mary. Rules for the Dance: A Handbook for Writing and Reading Metrical Verse. Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1998.

Whitman, Walt. “A Clear Midnight.” From Leaves of Grass, 1900. Bartleby. 17 April 2006. http://www.bartleby.com/142/283.html

Roma Aeterna

In this final sonnet, Longfellow skillfully portrays Dante’s dual vision of salvation. Influenced by Virgil, Dante dreams of a political salvation that comes from Rome and spreads over the world. However, Dante also looks for a spiritual salvation (portrayed in the sestet) that comes from God through the Roman Catholic Church.

In this sonnet, the octave refers primarily to political salvation. Political strife is a dominant theme of the Comedy, running from the disreputable Florentines in Inferno to a prophecy of Dante’s exile in Paradiso. The earliest expression of Dante’s political vision is found in the works of Virgil. In the Aeneid, Aeneas’ mission is to return to the home of his ancestors (Italy) and found a new Troy. This Troy will be greater than the former city, conquering the Greeks, Carthaginians, and all the peoples of the world.

Virgil believed that the might of Rome would usher in a Golden Age, where peace would reign and wars would be no more. He first wrote of this age in his Fourth Eclogue, which speaks of the birth of a child who would bring peace to the world. This theme is continued in Book VI of the Aeneid, where the child is given a name – Marcellus. In the underworld, Aeneas sees the future glory and heroes of Rome.

Virgil is especially fit to be Dante’s guide – not just because he has written about a journey to the underworld before, but because he and Dante share a similar vision of political salvation. Peace will spread from Rome to Italy and then over the whole earth.

This vision of political salvation was particularly poignant in Longfellow’s day. After the fall of Rome in 476 A.D., Italy was divided into several kingdoms. These kingdoms were frequently at war with each other, and although Dante and others dreamed of a unified Italy, this dream did not come to fruition until the middle of the nineteenth century. Longfellow was among the first to see the fulfillment of Dante’s political vision.

Closely tied to Dante’s political salvation is the spiritual salvation shown through the Roman Catholic Church. This comes from the book of Acts, which chronicles the spread of the early church. In Acts 1:8, Christ tells the apostles, “But ye shall receive power, after that the Holy Ghost is come upon you; and ye shall be witnesses unto me both in Jerusalem, and in all Judea, and in Samaria, and unto the uttermost part of the earth” (KJV). In Acts 2, the Holy Spirit enters the apostles at Pentecost, and they preach to all the peoples gathered at Jerusalem, each in his own tongue. This spiritual salvation is reflected in the sestet, where Longfellow uses images of wind to represent the coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. The last three lines of the sestet describe the preaching of God’s word, which brings spiritual salvation to the nations (VI.12-14).

Dante’s vision of salvation is both political and spiritual. In one sense, he is seeking to create heaven on earth, with peace spreading from Rome as the new Jerusalem. He is trying to recreate the Holy Roman Empire of Constantine, where the world is united under one government and one religion. However, Dante’s vision of salvation is not limited to this present life, for he also looks for the spiritual kingdom that will be established in the second coming of Christ (VI.4). Both these kingdoms, Dante believes, will bring peace to the world.

Sonnet VI: Paradiso

O star of morning and of liberty!
O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines
Above the darkness of the Apennines,
Forerunner of the day that is to be!
The voices of the city and the sea,
The voices of the mountains and the pines,
Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines
Are footpaths for the thought of Italy!

Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights,
Through all the nations, and a sound is heard,
As of a mighty wind, and men devout,
Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes,
In their own language hear thy wondrous word,
And many are amazed and many doubt.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Ubi Caritas et Amor

Now that Dante has ascended to heaven, Longfellow looks up to the stained glass windows of the church. In medieval times, stained glass windows were used to teach the common people Bible stories, since the commoners often could not read. The saints in heaven teach Dante about Christian love and virtue. Longfellow, instead of seeing the saints in heaven, sees them in the stained glass windows and imagines that he is hearing their stories.

The centerpiece of the cathedral is the rose window, which depicts the glorification of Christ. In the primum mobile, the outermost sphere of Dante’s Paradise, the saints are arranged in the shape of a rose. This rose, and indeed all of heaven, blazes with a glorious light. Beatrice ascends to join her place in the rose, and smiles on Dante at last – he could not bear the bliss and glory of her heavenly smile before.

After describing the sights of heaven in the octave, Longfellow describes the sounds of heaven in the sestet. All the saints and all creation join in praise to God. Their worship is supported by organ and choir and bells, all united to proclaim the mystery and wonder of Christ’s sacrifice. This sestet demonstrates a portion of the bliss, joy, and excitement experienced by the communing saints in heaven.

In keeping with his ecclesiastical theme, Longfellow echoes the order of the liturgy in his sonnets.* Sonnets III and IV both contain a confession of sins and God’s pardon. Liturgical services begin with a public confession, followed by a plea for God’s mercy in the Kyrie. Not only is this order fitting for a cathedral service, but it is the pattern of all Christian life. Confession ought always to precede salvation and thanksgiving to God.

The Kyrie is followed by praise to God in the Gloria. Longfellow depicts the joyful praise of the church in V.9-11. Although Longfellow does not specifically mention the Gloria, he is probably thinking of it, because this service is full of Latin hymns (V.10). Latin hymns appear quite often in Dante – most particularly in Purgatory when the souls sing psalms as they ascend the mount of Purgatory. In the ordinary of the mass, the Gloria is followed by the Credo – a recitation of the Nicene Creed. This is also a confession – not of sin, but of belief in God.

The high point of the mass is the celebration of the Eucharist. After praying over the bread and wine, the priest lifts them to heaven (“the elevation of the Host,” V.14). All the bells ring as the Sanctus is sung. The Sanctus is a hymn, taken from heavenly worship services in Isaiah 6 and Revelation 4. It is a fitting close to this first sonnet on Paradise.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth!
Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua.
Hosanna in excelsis!

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts!
Heaven and earth are full of your glory.
Hosanna in the highest!



* HT to Emily for asking about speech patterns in the sonnets, which made me think about a liturgical order.

Sonnet V: Paradiso

I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze
With forms of Saints and holy men who died,
Here martyred and hereafter glorified;
And the great Rose upon its leaves displays
Christ's Triumph, and the angelic roundelays,
With splendor upon splendor multiplied;
And Beatrice again at Dante's side
No more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise.

And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirs
Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love
And benedictions of the Holy Ghost;
And the melodious bells among the spires
O'er all the house-tops and through heaven above
Proclaim the elevation of the Host!

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Beata Beatrix

Of all the sonnets, the fourth sonnet is most specific to a scene in the Divine Comedy. This sonnet describes Dante’s meeting with Beatrice, at the climax of Purgatory. In the third sonnet, Dante watched the other sinners ascend the mount of Purgatory and confess their sins. Now it is time for Dante to internalize his lessons and confess his own sins.

Like the other sonnets, the distinction between the octave and the sestet is significant. The octave depicts Beatrice in all her heavenly glory, calling Dante to confession. She reminds him of his sins, and Dante weeps in anguish. In the sestet, Dante repents and receives pardon for his sins. Now that the burden of sin has been lifted, he is free to ascend with Beatrice to the heights of heaven.

Unlike the other sonnets, this sonnet contains four notable pairs of concepts: the veil and flame, the passion and woe, Lethe and Eunoe, and pardon and peace.

The first pair is fond in line 1: “With snow-white veil and garments as of flame.” This description of Beatrice as she stands before Dante is taken directly from the Comedy. John Ciardi notes that Beatrice’s garments symbolize the three theological virtues: faith is white, hope is green, and love is red (Ciardi 552). It is Beatrice’s faith and love that cause her to rebuke Dante, and faith and love allow Dante to confess his sins.

Next comes the “passion and the woe” of the young poet Dante (IV.3). Dante is Longfellow’s Virgil in these sonnets (cf. III.2), and Longfellow is taking a typically Dantean digression to praise his master. Longfellow also praised Dante’s passion and woe earlier in the second sonnet: “What passionate outcry of a soul in pain, / Uprose this poem of the earth and air, / This mediæval miracle of song!” (II.12-14) Dante’s love for God and his grief over sin led him to produce his masterpiece.

In line 12, Longfellow refers to the mythical streams Lethe and Eunoe. Lethe caused forgetfulness in Greek mythology, and the souls who went to Hades drank from it to forget their former lives. In Canto XXXI, Matilda plunges Dante into Lethe so that his sins are remembered no more (“the forgotten sorrow”, IV.13). Eunoe, a river of Dante’s own invention, increases his love for the good – “the remembered dream” (IV.12).

Finally, Dante gains “That perfect pardon which is perfect peace” (IV.14). As in the last lines of the third sonnet, God’s forgiveness of sins is announced. This is a fitting close to Purgatory – Dante is now inside the church, with the redeemed, and can raise his eyes to heaven. Now that the peccata have been erased, the light of heaven dawns on his lifted forehead (IV.11). Since his sins are no longer remembered or counted against him, Dante is able to love freely and to rise to the stars.


* The painting is Beata Beatrix by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

Sonnet IV: Purgatorio

With snow-white veil and garments as of flame,
She stands before thee, who so long ago
Filled thy young heart with passion and the woe
From which thy song and all its splendors came;
And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name,
The ice about thy heart melts as the snow
On mountain heights, and in swift overflow
Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs of shame.

Thou makest full confession; and a gleam,
As of the dawn on some dark forest cast,
Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase;
Lethe and Eunoë -- the remembered dream
And the forgotten sorrow -- bring at last
That perfect pardon which is perfect peace.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Wash All My Sins Away

As Dante enters Purgatory, Longfellow steps inside the cathedral. Both are now inside the church – the realm of the saved. Like the first sonnet, the third sonnet is somber and reflective. This is Purgatory, and here the souls mourn their sins.

To create the solemn mood, the octave of the sonnet sets up an atmosphere of sanctity. There is an otherworldly quality that greets all the senses – the smell of incense, the light of the candles, and the sound of whispered Latin prayers. In the book of Revelation, incense symbolizes the prayers of the saints. In Catholic churches, votive candles are often lit as prayers are offered. The incense, candles, and whisperings are the prayers of the souls as they gradually ascend the mount of Purgatory.

Inside the church, Longfellow is surrounded by the dead souls who are buried in tombs along the aisles and down below in the crypt. Longfellow pictures himself as hearing the life stories of the Christians in his cathedral, who are still working their way into heaven. This is like Dante, who is encircled by a cloud of souls in Purgatory—souls who are gradually being released from the weight of sin.

Longfellow’s mood invites contemplation and introspection. For him, Purgatory is the place of repentance, not of rejoicing. His rejoicing will be saved for the time when the burden of sin is lifted and the soul is free to rise to God.

In the sestet, Longfellow describes the process of repentance more specifically. He hears “rehearsals of forgotten tragedies / And lamentations from the crypt below.” (10-11) The dead souls confess their sins to Longfellow, just like they do to Dante. Longfellow learns and profits from by their example. Additionally, these confessions may serve a similar purpose as the whip and the rein found on each step of Purgatory. The rein shows negative examples of each of the seven deadly sins, warning Dante not to commit these sins; the whip displays positive examples of the corresponding virtues, spurring the poet on to love and good works.

While the dead souls confess their sins, their confessions and prayers rise upwards to God. This parallels the soul’s ascent in Purgatory: as each sin is rubbed away, the soul rises higher to God, love, and holiness.

This sonnet ends with the emotional announcement of God’s pardon (13-14). Longfellow is quoting Isaiah 1:18, but he is also referring to Dante’s “baptism” in the garden. As Matilda plunges Dante into Lethe, he hears her quote from Psalm 51: “Asperges me hyssopo, et mundabor; lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor” (Ciardi 560). Like the poet David, Dante is washed clean as he repents from his sins. Once the poet has confessed, God grants his pardon. Rejoicing now replaces repentance.

Sonnet III: Purgatorio

I enter, and I see thee in the gloom
Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine!
And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine.
The air is filled with some unknown perfume;
The congregation of the dead make room
For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine;
Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine
The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb.

From the confessionals I hear arise
Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies,
And lamentations from the crypts below;
And then a voice celestial that begins
With the pathetic words, "Although your sins
As scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow."

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

This World, with Devils Filled

As mentioned previously, Longfellow wrote six sonnets on Dante’s Divina Commedia. The first two are about Inferno, the middle two about Purgatorio, and the final two about Paradiso. In these sonnets, Longfellow describes his impression of an emotion or theme in the poem, rather than a reaction to a specific scene. Thus, Longfellow’s first sonnet on the Inferno covers the first canto, when the middle-aged Dante is walking through the wood. The first sonnet’s theme is the idea of pilgrimage through life. The second sonnet moves on to Inferno proper, with a primary focus on Dante’s reaction to the souls in torment. In this sonnet, Longfellow is more impressionistic than specific in his commentary on Dante.

Sonnet II sets up the dichotomy between the world and the church, between the lost and the saved. We often speak of people being “outside the church,” meaning that they are not saved. Longfellow is literally outside the church, where sin reigns in the actions of the world. “The loud vociferations of the street” of Sonnet I refer to the cacophony and confusion of Hell (I.7).* Only inside the church can the pilgrim find salvation and rest (I.9-14, III.12-14).

The octave of the first sonnet describes the exterior of the cathedral that Longfellow is visiting. From the later sonnets, it appears that the exterior of the cathedral, as well as the world outside, symbolizes Hell. In lines 1-5, Longfellow admires the carvings of saints and sinners on the facade of the Gothic cathedral. In lines 6-8, it appears that one of these scenes is the crucifixion of Christ, with Judas watching from a corner of the picture. “The traitor Judas lowers!” and this alludes to Dante’s placement of Judas at the bottom of hell, in the circle reserved for the traitors (II.8). The “living thieves” could refer to an earlier circle of hell, but more likely refers to sinners in general (II.7). The grotesque gargoyles around the sides of the church are likely the demons who torment the sinners in Hell (II.6). They look down on the people on the street, the people who never enter the cathedral, and remind them of the anguish to come.**

While the octave describes the grotesqueness of hell, the sestet shows us Dante’s reaction to the horrors of Inferno. Longfellow effectively portrays the mingled pity and horror, the glee and hatred that Dante experiences as he travels down through the circles. Several scenes from Inferno immediately spring to mind while reading lines 9-11. First, there is the famous story of Paolo and Francesca, the lovers who were killed by a jealous husband. As Dante listens to her pathetic tale, he is moved to tears and faints at the end of Canto 5. Virgil rebukes him for his weakness, say that he must learn to scorn sin. Dante is an apt pupil, and by the ninth circle, he mocks and torments Bocca degli Abbati, frozen in the ice. Dante sees the horror and sadness of hell with human eyes at first, but he learns to look on it with God’s eyes of justice.

Finally, Longfellow concludes the sonnet by praising Dante’s artistry and passion (II.11-14). Dante did not just write the Divine Comedy as an academic exercise (though there is much that is academic in his song). He wrote it out of human passion and feeling, with vivid descriptions of the earth and the air, so that we might feel and partake in his journey.


*Tchaikovsky’s symphonic poem Francesca da Rimini is based on Canto V of Dante’s Inferno and provides a fascinating musical commentary on the noise and chaos of hell, balanced by the pity that Dante feels in hearing her story.

** Longfellow also makes a subtle reference in lines 3-4 to the liturgical year. Dante descends into Hell on Holy Saturday, the day before Easter. Flowers bloom and birds make their nests in springtime, the season of Easter. Since the parvis (portico) and portal are mentioned as being especially adorned, perhaps Longfellow is visiting the cathedral himself on Holy Saturday in order to follow Dante’s pilgrimage more closely.

Sonnet II: Inferno

How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers!
This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves
Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves
Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers,
And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers!
But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves
Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves,
And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers!

Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain,
What exultations trampling on despair,
What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong,
What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,
Uprose this poem of the earth and air,
This mediæval miracle of song!

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Come Unto Me, and I Will Give You Rest

This post begins a new series on Longfellow’s six Dante sonnets. NB: Large portions of the explication of this sonnet are taken from a paper which I wrote for Linguistics.

While Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was translating Dante’s Divine Comedy, he wrote six sonnets to be prefixed to his translation. In these sonnets, he compares the structure of the Divine Comedy to the architecture of a Gothic cathedral. The first two sonnets are prefixed to Inferno and describe Longfellow the pilgrim’s entrance into the cathedral. Longfellow achieves a reverent mood in this first sonnet by a skillful use of linguistic devices, such as syntactic structure in the sonnet form, word choice, and word placement, to center his poem around prayer.

This sonnet is written in the Italian style, so that the octave describes the entrance of an ordinary laborer and the sestet depicts the entrance of Longfellow the pilgrim. Longfellow skillfully uses syntactic structures of sentences within the sonnet form to convey his meaning. In the octave, the first two lines set up the scene before the cathedral, both for the workman and for Longfellow the pilgrim. Line three shows the laborer laying down his burden, then entering the cathedral in line four.

The sestet reverses this description, as Longfellow the pilgrim enters the cathedral in line nine and leaves his burden in line ten. This chiastic structure is repeated later between the octave and sestet, when the business of the outside world (lines 7-8, 12-13) is enclosed by the silence of waiting (6, 14).

The central lines of the octave and sestet come in lines five and eleven. “Kneel to repeat his paternoster o’er” and “Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray” both emphasize the devotional aspect of the poem (5, 11). Reverent prayer, the theme of this sonnet, is significantly placed at the center of the octave and sestet. The chiastic arrangement of the clauses in the sentences serves to emphasize Longfellow’s larger theme in the poem.

Longfellow’s word choices also serve to convey his meaning. Most of the words in the poem are only one or two syllables long. Words such as laborer, reverent, and eternal, while containing three syllables are elided to sound as two. This short length enables the reader to pause and breathe after every word, contributing to the slow and reverent mood of the poem. The four words with the most syllables – vociferations, undistinguishable, disconsolate, and inarticulate – emphasize the confusion and heaviness of the world outside. Inside the cathedral, all is quiet, brief, and restful.

In both the octave and sestet, the poet emphasizes burden at the same point in the meter. This shows the similarity between the laborer and Longfellow. These two men have a similar need for the rest and reverence of the cathedral. This can only be achieved by laying aside their burdens of the cares, noises, and disruptions of the world and entering the cathedral.

Another device Longfellow employs is accented and alliterative pairs. One of these is “day to day,” found in the first line of the sestet. It accents the pilgrim’s continual need for rest from the busy world outside. The other accented and alliterative pair closes the sestet with “watch and wait” (14). This last pair once again reminds the reader of the reverent nature of the poem. As he kneels in prayer, the pilgrim should “watch and wait” in the silence of the cathedral for God to speak.

Through syntactic structures, Longfellow builds his poem around a central theme of prayer. By using short words, he enables the reader to pause and rest in the silence of the cathedral. The meter emphasizes the pilgrim’s burden, and alliterative pairs to show how much the pilgrim needs peace. These elements of syntactic structure, word choice, and word placement combine to form a poem emphasizing reverence and rest.

Sonnet I: Inferno

Oft have I seen at some cathedral door
A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,
Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor
Kneel to repeat his paternoster o’er;
Far off the noises of the world retreat;
The loud vociferations of the street
Become an undistinguishable roar.

So, as I enter here from day to day,
And leave my burden at this minster gate,
Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray,
The tumult of the time disconsolate
To inarticulate murmurs dies away,
While the eternal ages watch and wait.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Burnt Norton, Part 2

Garlic and sapphires in the mud
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
And reconciles forgotten wars.
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
Ascend to summer in the tree
We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf
And hear below the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled among the stars.

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.

The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Ehrebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.

Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.

Holy Sonnet 14, John Donne

I just love this sonnet. I will not even attempt to explain it.

Batter my heart, three-person'd God ; for you
As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.