Since today is all about love, I tried to think of something romantic to talk about and found nothing was coming to mind. The funny thing is, I like a lot of romantic things, but none really stuck out to me. Did I want to share a story about Jordan and I, or a favorite painting that had something to do with love (perhaps appropriate since I'm an artist)? After leaving it all yesterday and most of today, the perfect thought finally popped up: one of my favorite poems.
John Donne married a woman whom we know very little about named Anne Moore. Although she is rarely the focal point in any discussion about the metaphysical poet and priest, it is certain that she was very important to him. Among other things, he had to give up a great deal in order to be with her. He lost his position under her uncle, Sir Thomas Egerton, the Keeper of the Great Seal, that he had worked his whole life to achieve and nearly lost his freedom spending a brief time in prison over their elopement.
What fascinates me is not only what he gave up to be with her, but what
she gave up to be with
him. Anne was from a high ranking noble family while he was not. She would have been married into wealth and comfort, but instead chose a life with a man she loved that was nearly devoid of every comfort. She died at a young age after bearing him 12 children during their 16 years of marraige.
Donne never married again which was very unusual for the time, especially for a man with so many mouths to feed.
When I read
The Relic, written many years after her death, I often wonder if he perhaps hoped that she would return from her pauper's grave to his and meet him at the time of the Last Judgement and so wrote this poem in hope even after his loss.
The Relicby John Donne, first published 1633
When my grave is broke up again
Some second guest to entertain,
—For graves have learn'd that woman-head,
To be to more than one a bed—
And he that digs it, spies
A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,
Will he not let us alone,
And think that there a loving couple lies,
Who thought that this device might be some way
To make their souls at the last busy day
Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?
If this fall in a time, or land,
Where mass-devotion doth command,
Then he that digs us up will bring
Us to the bishop or the king,
To make us relics; then
Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I
A something else thereby;
All women shall adore us, and some men.
And, since at such time miracles are sought,
I would have that age by this paper taught
What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.
First we loved well and faithfully,
Yet knew not what we loved, nor why;
Difference of sex we never knew,
No more than guardian angels do;
Coming and going we
Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals;
Our hands ne'er touch'd the seals,
Which nature, injured by late law, sets free.
These miracles we did; but now alas!
All measure, and all language, I should pass,
Should I tell what a miracle she was.
