Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Conformity and Rebellion -- David Stevens

SONNET 73

William Shakespeare
That time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by-and-by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
   This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
   To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Shakespeare, William. “Sonnet 73.” Shakespeare Online. 4 Nov. 2014. Web. http://www.shakespeare-online.com/sonnets/73.html


William Shakespeare’s 73rd sonnet, one of his most famous, is a rebellion against death and the mortality of all men. Although it is not as overt as Dylan Thomas’s “Do not go gentle into that good night,” this poem as well rejects that which cannot be rejected, the ultimate finality of death. In the first quatrain, the speaker compares himself to late autumn, when nearly all the leaves have fallen from the branches “where late the sweet birds sang.” The second comparison is between the speaker and murky twilight, as “black night” comes creeping in. These metaphors, paired with the third quatrain—which compares his life to a hearth, and his approaching death to its expiration—would appear to paint a bleak image of life in general, and especially of death. However, the final couplet reveals a change—a shift from pity to appreciation. The love of the poem’s subject for the speaker redeems his death; it is actually undying. In this way, Sonnet 73 is a rejection of death, and the escape it suggests is through love. Shakespeare argues that one may rebel against the clutches of “black night” by forging a love eternal. And while love might not conquer all—according to the bard, at least—vincit mortem amor.

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