Post by contention on Dec 13, 2005 16:59:17 GMT -5
This poem I don't wish to discuss, besides the sense of death. It more less states, within a Shakespearen Sonnet style that death seems to hide when you do wish for it to come. As if it runs behind the gates (Heaven and Hell) thus why they are eclipsed and impassable until it is your time. Thus, why life would turn out to be a game. Coy faced means shy. This in its own way states that slumber (death) is shy and seems to run when you beg for it or pay attention to it. It lies where your caskets pillow may, something you can't see and know not the color of. Hueless (color and appearance) could both work there. Sights would be blind meaning that, when we less think of death it is trully there yet we pay no heed to it. Some worship it and give it a type of grace as the entrance to the great beyond. These words lighten shadows, thus when someone dies we hear of it and its pubic and we know death has struck. Death lies beyond the gates to heaven and hell, the gate of judgement. There it hides, from the hands of man which abuse it; thus it can not be beckoned to. You only reach the gates with fear, fear of dying, thus it comes so very close. Yet, death plays by the rules that man has made in literature, hiding on a canvas of expression and ideals to only do what it is told by fate and time. It all may be a wish for death.
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Hark, thine coy-faced slumber, doth thou embrace
Whereupon thy hueless pillow but lie?
Or art my subtle sights blind by your grace,
Which lightens the shadows in which you sly?
Doth thou but stalk behind the eclipsed gates,
Which crumble as these feet draw from fear;
To run from what it is you’re born to take,
As humanity thrives to hold you so dear.
Thoust coward, thoust twit, thoust gutless creature,
Trapped within the hand, constructed from man;
Imaged and sculpted in all His features,
To never shape the canvas where we stand.
Tis time such a value upon thy game,
Or doth thou just play, to drive thee insane?
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Hark, thine coy-faced slumber, doth thou embrace
Whereupon thy hueless pillow but lie?
Or art my subtle sights blind by your grace,
Which lightens the shadows in which you sly?
Doth thou but stalk behind the eclipsed gates,
Which crumble as these feet draw from fear;
To run from what it is you’re born to take,
As humanity thrives to hold you so dear.
Thoust coward, thoust twit, thoust gutless creature,
Trapped within the hand, constructed from man;
Imaged and sculpted in all His features,
To never shape the canvas where we stand.
Tis time such a value upon thy game,
Or doth thou just play, to drive thee insane?