The Autumnal

The Autumnal by John Donne (1633)

The poem opens by declaring that no spring or summer beauty possesses the grace found in an autumnal face; young beauties compel love by a kind of force, almost a rape, while an autumnal face only counsels, and yet the speaker cannot escape its pull. He asserts that if loving were ever shameful, here it would carry no shame, since affections in this case take on the name of reverence rather than desire. He concedes that her first years might be called the Golden Age, but insists her present state is gold often tried and ever new; that earlier time was her torrid, inflaming season, while now she offers a tolerable tropic climate. Her eyes are fair, and anyone demanding more heat than they give is like a man in a fever wishing for pestilence. He instructs against calling her wrinkles graves; if they were graves, they would be Love's graves, since otherwise Love would have nowhere to dwell. Love is not dead here but sits vowed to this trench like an anchorite, and until her death, which must also be his, he does not dig a grave but builds a tomb. Love dwells here permanently, the speaker says; though Love may sojourn everywhere in his progress, his standing house is here, in a place of still evening rather than noon or night, where there is no voluptuousness yet all delight. Her words suit every listener, fitting both revels and council alike. He calls this love's timber, contrasting it with youth, which he calls the underwood; there, love is like wine in June that inflames the blood, coming most seasonably when one's taste and appetite for other things has passed. He invokes Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the platane tree, loved for its age since none was so large as she, or else because, being young, nature blessed her youth with age's glory of barrenness. He reasons that if we love things long sought, age is something we spend fifty years compassing, and if we love transitory things that soon decay, then age must be loveliest at the latest day. He then draws a sharp distinction, refusing to name winter faces in the same breath: those whose skin is slack, lank as an unthrift's purse, are merely a soul's sack; whose eyes seek light within because all without is shade; whose mouths are holes rather worn out than made; whose every tooth has gone to a separate place, vexing their souls at the resurrection. Such living death-heads, he insists, should not be named to him, for these are not ancient but antique. He declares he hates extremes, yet would rather spend a day among tombs than cradles. Since such a motion of love is natural, he resolves that his own love shall still descend and journey down the hill, not panting after growing beauties, so that he shall ebb out together with those who go homeward.

By John Donne · First published 1633 · Genre: Metaphysical Poetry, Love Poetry, Lyric Poetry · 653 words

First lines

No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace / As I have seen in one autumnal face; / Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape; / This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape. / If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame; / Affections here take reverence's name. / Were her first years the Golden Age? that's true, / But now they're gold oft tried, and ever new. / That was her torrid and inflaming time; / This is her tolerable tropic clime. / Fair eyes; who asks more heat than comes from hence, / He in a fever wishes pestilence. / Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were, / They were Love's graves, for else he is nowhere. / Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit, / Vow'd to this trench, like an anachorite, / And here, till hers, which must be his death, come, / He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb. / Here dwells he; though he sojourn everywhere / In progress, yet his standing house is here; / Here, where still evening is, not noon, nor night; / Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight. / In all her words, unto all hearers fit, / You may at revels, you at council, sit. / This is love's timber; youth his underwood; / There he, as wine in June, enrages blood; / Which then comes seasonablest, when our taste / And appetite to other things is past. / Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the platane tree, / Was loved for age, none being so large as she; / Or else because, being young, nature did bless / Her youth with age's glory, barrenness. / If we love things long sought, age is a thing / Which we are fifty years in compassing; / If transitory things, which soon decay, / Age must be loveliest at the latest day. / But name not winter faces, whose skin's slack, / Lank as an unthrift's purse, but a soul's sack; / Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade; / Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out, than made; / Whose every tooth to a several place is gone, / To vex their souls at resurrection; / Name not these living death-heads unto me, / For these, not ancient, but antique be. / I hate extremes; yet I had rather stay / With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day. / Since such love's motion natural is, may still / My love descend, and journey down the hill, / Not panting after growing beauties; so / I shall ebb out with them who homeward go.

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metaphysical-poetry · autumn-imagery · mortality · transience · spiritual-reflection · nature-themes · time-passage · decay · melancholy · religious-verse · early-modern-english · baroque-poetry

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