BLAKE (INGLESE)

William Blake

(Riferimenti pagine: D 28-29-30-31-32-33-36-37)

William Blake(1757-1827) was born in London, his family was poor and he always had a humble life.

He was a political freethinker and is still considered a “visionary”, and a round artist, because he was a poet and even a drawer and a painter.

He rejected the classical conventions and started a new way of writing poems. Blake used a simple speech  and knew the importance that connects sound with meaning. His symbolic imagery is often very simple: lambs, children, flowers, other animals...

The main theme of Blake’s poetry is the opposition of the contraries. According to the poet, human life is characterised by a series of complementary opposites: Hell and Heaven, Good and Evil, love and hate, childhood and adulthood, reason and imagination, male and female, attraction and repulsion, and so on.. Imagination is the way through which men could see more beyond the reality.

William Blake was interested on social and political problems of his time and on the evil consequences of the economic development.

He wrote two collections of lyrical verses, “Songs of Innocence” and then “Songs of Experience”. They are linked together.

“The Chimney Sweeper”

When my mother died I was very young,                                                                            
And my father sold me while yet my tongue           
Could scarcely cry 'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved: so I said,
"Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair."

And so he was quiet; and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight, - 
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

And by came an angel who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins and set them all free;
Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind;
And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm;
So if all do their duty they need not fear harm. 

Traduzione:

Quando mia madre morì ero molto giovane, e mio padre mi vendette quando ancora la mia lingua poteva a malapena piangere "weep!'weep!'weep!"  Così spazzo i tuoi camini e dormo nella fuliggine. C'era il piccolo Tom Dacre, che piangeva quando la sua testa, che era ricciuta come il dorso di un agnello, fu rasata. Così io dissi  "Zitto Tom! Non ti preoccupare, perché quando la tua testa sarà rasata  ti renderai conto che la fuliggine non potrà rovinare i tuoi capelli chiari".  Così era quieto e proprio quella notte,  appena Tom si addormentò, ebbe una tale visione!  Mille spazzacamini, Dick, Joe, Ned e Jack,  erano tutti chiusi nelle bare nere.

E lì vicino arrivò un Angelo con una chiave luminosa,  ed aprì le bare e liberò tutti,  e poi giù da un pendio verde e pianeggiante essi correvano ridendo,  e si lavavano al fiume splendevano al sole.  Poi nudi e bianchi, abbandonate tutte le loro borse,  si sollevano sopra le nuvole e giocano nel vento, e l'Angelo disse a Tom: "Se tu sarai un buon ragazzino,  avrai Dio per padre e sarai sempre contento".  E così Tom si svegliò; e noi ci alzammo al buio,  e prendemmo le nostre borse e spazzole per lavorare:  sebbene la mattina fosse fresca Tom era felice e caldo; Così se tutti compiono il proprio dovere non avran nulla da temere.

Comment:

The poem was written in 1789 and it’s part of the first collection, “Songs of Innocence”.

It talks about one of the social problems in Blake’s time. The chimney sweepers were little children used for climbing up and cleaning the dark chimneys in the cities. They were orphans, or poor little children sold by their parents. These children were exploited, they had very bad living conditions, they had to sleep in the dirt, they hardly reached adulthood.  

It opens with the first person singular, it’s divided in six quatrains. In the second stanza, the poet introduces another character, called Tom Dacre, a little boy. He’s sad because he’s been shaved and he cries for his fair curled hair. In the third stanza there is the description of Tom’s dream: in a cold dark night, he and his friends were locked up in black coffins, when an angel saved them . They were free and started to run over a green plain, in a sunny place, completely different from their daily reality. When Tom awakes, he feels happy and he goes to work with a smile on his face, thinking about his “duty”: if he continues with his hard work, he won’t “fear the harm”, so, he won’t be afraid of Evil.

“The Chimney Sweeper”(2)

A little black thing among the snow:                              Una piccolo creatura scura in mezzo alla neve che
Crying weep, weep, in notes of woe!                             Piange “weep,weep” con note di dolore!
Where are thy father & mother? say?                            “Dimmi,dove sono tuo padre e tua madre?”
They are both gone up to the church to pray.                “Sono andati tutti e due in chiesa a pregare.”

Because I was happy upon the heath,                          Siccome ero felice (quando vivevo) nella brughiera,
And smil'd among the winters snow:                             e sorridevo nella neve d’inverno,
They clothed me in the clothes of death,                       Loro mi fecero indossare I vestiti della morte(scuri)
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.                        E mi insegnarono a cantare le note di dolore.

And because I am happy & dance & sing,                     E siccome ora io sono contento,danzo e ballo                    
They think they have done me no injury:                       sono convinti di non avermi recato alcun danno,
And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King,          e sono andati a pregare Dio,il suo prete e il Re,
Who make up a heaven of our misery.                          I quali crearono un paradiso per la nostra tristezza.

Comment:

The collection “Songs of Experience” was written five years later, in 1794. This sequence of poems represents two different-complementar situations, two levels of life: first, the childhood, the age of innocence and purity. Then the experience, the adulthood. The world is like “two contrary states of the human soul”. The theme is the same of the previous poem. The setting is different: in a snowy day, a little child, crying and singing, left alone by his parents ,that are praying in the church. They don’t care and continue praying God, “the Priest”(the Church in general) and the King (the government),while he’s suffering outside, among the snow, crying “in the notes of woe”. Misery is the key word in the whole poem. The child seems to be conscious of his condition, and he’s desperate.

“The lamb”

Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing wooly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice:
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee

Little Lamb I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
Little Lamb God bless thee.
Little Lamb God bless thee.

Traduzione:

Piccolo Agnello, chi ti ha creato?
Sai chi ti ha creato?
Ti ha dato la vita ed insegnato a nutrirti,
grazie al ruscello ed il prato,
ti ha dato la veste della gioia, 
la più dolce veste lanosa e luminosa,
ti ha dato una voce così tenera
che ha fatto gioire tutte le valli?
Piccolo Agnello, chi ti ha creato,
Sai chi ti ha creato?

Piccolo Agnello, te lo dirò
piccolo Agnello, te lo dirò.
E' chiamato con il tuo nome
Perchè egli chiama se stesso un Agnello
Egli è mite ed egli è lieve
Egli divenne un piccolo bambino
Io un bambino, tu un Agnello,
noi siamo chiamati con il suo nome.
Piccolo Agnello, Dio ti benedica!

Comment:

It’s part of “Songs of Innocence”, made of  two big stanzas.

In the first one, the poet asks to the lamb, the symbol of innocence and simplemindedness: “Do you know who made you?”. He speaks about all his characteristics, and then the poet answers himself “Little lamb, I’ll tell you”: in this parts are mentioned Jesus Christ and God, both illustrated with the symbol of the lamb. Then, it’s possible to find an identification between the poet and the imagine of a child. During the Romantic age, children were very important: they were considered closer to Nature and to God, they were sincere, truthful, pure. Growing up meant alienate the purest idea of God.

“The Tyger”

Tyger ! Tyger ! Burning bright

                                                                                       Tigre! Tigre! Ardendo lucente

In the forest of the night ,

                                                                                        Nella foresta della notte,

What immortal hand or eye

                                                                                        Che immortale mano o occhio

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

                                                                                        Poté forgiare la tua paurosa simmetria?

In what distant deeps or skies

                                                                                        In che distanti profondità (mari) o cieli

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

                                                                                        Bruciava i l fuoco dei tuoi occhi?

On what wings dare he aspire?

                                                                                         Su quali ali osò egli (=creatore)aspirare?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

                                                                                         Che mano osò afferrare i l fuoco?

And what shoulders, and what art

                                                                                          E che spalle, e che artificio

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

                                                                                          Riuscì a intrecciare le fibre del tuo cuore?

And, when thy heart began to beat ,

                                                                                          E, quando i l tuo cuore incominciò a battere,

What dread hand? and what dread feet?

                                                                                          Che terribile mano? e che terribili piedi?

What the hammer? what the chain?

                                                                                          Che martello? che catena?

In what furnace was thy brain?

                                                                                          In che fornace fu i l tuo cervello?

What the anvil? what the dread grasp

                                                                                           Che incudine?che terribile morsa

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

                                                                                      Osò i suoi mortali terrori del tuo cervello afferrare?

What the hammer? what the chain?

                                                                                          Che martello? che catena?

In what furnace was thy brain?

                                                                                          In che fornace fu i l tuo cervello?

What the anvil? what the dread grasp

                                                                                          Che incudine? che terribile morsa

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

                                                                             Osò i suoi(del tuo cervello)mortali terrori afferrare?

When the stars threw down their spears,

                                                                                          Quando le stelle buttarono giù le loro lance,

And watered heaven with their tears,

                                                                                          Ed annaffiarono il cielo con le loro lacrime,

Did he smile his work to see?

                                                                                          Sorrise al vedere il suo lavoro?

Did he who made the lamb make thee?

                                                                                   Colui che fece l ’agnello fece anche  te?

Tyger ! Tyger ! burning bright

                                                                                    Tigre! Tigre! Ardendo lucente

In the forest of the night ,

                                                                                     Nel la foresta del la notte,

What immortal hand or eye

                                                                                      Che immortale mano o occhio

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

                                                                                        Osò forgiare la tua paurosa simmetria?

Traduzione:

Normally we write and say “tiger” but the title is in Blake’s original spelling, a sort of archaism. It’s in the second Blake’s collection, in “Songs of Experience” and it’s linked to “The Lamb”.

Its made of six quatrains.

This poem has an original rhythm and a simple but powerful imagery.

The Tiger is the symbol of something  “sublime”: beautiful, amazing, but frightening and dangerous, at the same time.

The question is the same of the previous poem: “who had enough power to create you, Tiger?”.

It’s necessary a very powerful blacksmith(creator) to give life to this beautiful animal.

She has a fearful symmetry, that attracts and, at the same time, frightens.

GRAY (INGLESE)

(I riferimenti alla parte prima: pagine D3-4-6-7-8-9-10-14-15-16)

Thomas Gray

(Riferimenti pagine: D20-21-23-24-25-26)

Thomas Gray  was born in Cornhill, London, in 1716 and died in 1771.

He was a very learned man and his most famous poem is an elegy, called “Elegy written in a country churchyard”.

Gray is often defined as a “transitional poet” because his poetry combines elements from neoclassicism and early-romanticism. He rejected the neoclassical tradition but he used  the typical poetic speech and a noble language.

As an early-romantic poet, he uses the first person singular in his compositions, he’s interested on rural life, emotions, and the contemplation of the landscape.

The Italian poet Ugo Foscolo drew inspiration from his “Elegy written in a country churchyard” to complete his greatest poem “Dei sepolcri”. The difference between this two artists is that Foscolo talks about the “urne dei forti”: the important people of the Italian history. Gray, instead, insists on “common people”, the ones that had a simple life and couldn’t become very famous for the History of their country.

“Elegy written in a country churchyard”

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way. And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt’ring from the straw built shed, The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly beds.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire’s return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow’d the wood beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all the wealth e’er gave, Awaits alike the inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and the fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll; Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his field withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.

The applause of list’ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation’s eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined: Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the muse’s flame.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th’unlettered muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy test around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e’er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling’ring look behind?

For thee, who mindful of the unhonoured dead Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, “Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

“One morn I missed him on the customed hill. Along the heath and near his favourite tree; Another came, nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

“The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the churchyard path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

The epitaph Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, He gained from heaven (‘twas all he wished) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.

Traduzione:

La campana della sera annuncia il rintocco del giorno che muore la mandria  che muggisce lentamente si snoda per il pascolo l’aratore verso casa volge il suo stanco cammino e lascia il mondo all’oscurità e a me.

Ora si dilegua il paesaggio luccicante alla vista e tutta l’aria  una solenne calma tiene tranne là dove lo scarabeo rotea il suo volo ronzante e sonnolenti tintinnii cullano i distanti ovili.

Tranne che da quella torre ammantata d’edera il mesto gufo con la luna si lamenta di coloro che, vagando presso il suo rifugio segreto, molestano il suo antico solitario regno.

Sotto quegli ispidi olmi, all’ombra di quel tasso, dove si solleva la zolla in molti tumuli che si sgretolano ciascuno nella sua stretta cella per sempre steso i semplici antenati del villaggio dormono.

L’allegro richiamo del mattino profumato d’incenso, la rondine che cinguetta dal nido fatto di paglia, lo squillo acuto del gallo o l’echeggiare del corno da caccia non li sveglieranno più dal loro umile giaciglio.

Per loro non brucerà più il cocente focolare nè una moglie occupata accudirà alle faccende serali, né i bambini correranno ad annunciare balbettando il ritorno del signore (padre) o saliranno sulle sue ginocchia per spartirsi il desiderato bacio.

Spesso alla loro falce ha ceduto il raccolto; il loro solco ha spesso rotto la restia zolla. Con quanta allegria guidavano la coppia (di buoi) per i campi! Come si chinavano i boschi sotto i loro potenti colpi!

Che l’Ambizione non derida la loro utile fatica le loro gioie familiari ed il destino oscuro; né la Grandiosità ascolti con un sorriso sdegnoso i brevi  e semplici annali dei poveri.

Il vanto dell’araldica, la pompa del potere e tutto ciò che la bellezza tutto ciò che la ricchezza hanno mai dato attende allo stesso modo l’ora inevitabile: le vie della gloria non portano ad altro che alla tomba.

Né tu, orgoglioso, non imputare a questi la colpa se la Memoria sulle loro tombe monumenti commemorativi non innalza, laddove attraverso la lunga navata e la volta intagliata il sonoro inno amplifica la nota di elogio.

Possono un’urna istoriata o un busto espressivo richiamare alla propria dimora il fugace respiro? Può la voce dell’Onore provocare la polvere silenziosa? O la Lusinga adulare il tardo e freddo orecchio della Morte?

Forse in questo luogo abbandonato giace un cuore una volta pregno del fuoco celeste, mani che lo scettro dell’impero avrebbero potuto reggere, oppure portato all’estasi la lira vivente.

Ma la Conoscenza dinanzi ai loro occhi l’ampia pagina ricca delle spoglie del tempo non ha mai srotolato; la fredda Penuria ha represso il loro nobile ardore ed ha gelato la geniale inclinazione dello spirito.

Moltissime gemme del più puro raggio sereno le scure inesplorate caverne dell’oceano conservano; tantissimi fiori nascono per appassire mai visti e sprecano il loro profumo nell’aria deserta.

Un qualche Hampden di campagna che, con petto impavido al piccolo tiranno dei suoi campi si oppose; un qualche muto e inglorioso Milton qui potrebbe giacere, un qualche Cromwell, innocente del sangue del suo paese.

Di suscitare l’applauso del senato che ascolta, di disprezzare le minacce di dolori e disgrazie, di spargere ricchezza su una ridente terra, di leggere la loro storia negli occhi di tutto un popolo

La sorte negò loro; non solo circoscritte le loro crescenti virtù, ma anche limitati i loro crimini; impedì di farsi strada attraverso il delitto fino al trono, e di chiudere le porte della misericordia sull’umanità.

Di nascondere i penosi spasimi della verità di cui erano consapevoli di smorzare i rossori di una innocente vergogna o di ammucchiare sull’altare del Lusso e dell’Orgoglio con l’incenso acceso alla fiamma della poesia.

Lontano dalla meschina lotta della pazza folla I loro sobri desideri non hanno mai imparato a disperdersi; lungo la fredda, appartata valle della vita hanno conservato il corso silenzioso della loro esistenza.

Tuttavia per proteggere dalle ingiurie persino queste ossa, qualche fragile monumento ancora eretto vicino, adornato con versi incolti e di sculture senza forma, implora al passante il tributo di un sospiro.

I loro nomi e i loro anni scritti da una Musa illetterata, prendono il posto della fama e dell’elegia; e sparge molti versetti sacri che insegnano al rustico moralista a morire.

Perché chi, preda al muto oblio, questa esistenza piacevole e affannosa ha mai rifiutato? Ha lasciato i luoghi allietati dall’allegro giorno Senza gettare indietro un bramoso indugiante sguardo?

A qualche petto amato si affida l’anima di chi se ne va, alcune gocce pietose richiede l’occhio che si chiude; anche dalla tomba grida il pianto della Natura anche nelle nostre ceneri vivono i loro soliti fuochi.

Quanto a te, che, pensoso sui morti non onorati, in queste righe il loro innocente racconto riferisci; se, per caso, portato da solitaria contemplazione, qualche animo a te affine domanderà del tuo fato,

Forse qualche canuto pastore potrà dire: “Spesso l’abbiamo veduto al sorgere dell’alba sfiorare con passi frettolosi la rugiada per incontrare il sole sui prati dell’altopiano.

“Là ai piedi di quel faggio che ondeggia laggiù che intreccia le sue vecchie bizzarre radici così in alto, il suo indolente corpo nel meriggio soleva stendere e meditata sul ruscello che gorgoglia lì accanto.

“Proprio presso quel bosco, che ora sorride come per scorno, mormorando le sue ribelli fantasie egli soleva vagare ora abbattuto, triste e pallido come uno desolato, o oppresso dalle preoccupazioni o contrariato da un amore senza speranza.

“Una mattina non lo vidi più sulla solita collina lungo la brughiera e vicino al suo albero preferito. Venne un altro (giorno); tuttavia né al di là del ruscello, né sui prati, né nel bosco era lui;

Il giorno seguente, con canti funebri di rito, il triste corteo lentamente per il sentiero che porta alla chiesa lo vedemmo portato. Avvicinati e leggi (dato che sai leggere) il ‘giace’ Inciso sulla pietra sotto quel vecchio biancospino.

L’epitaffio Qui posa il capo sul grembo della Terra Un giovane sconosciuto a Fama e Fortuna La bella Scienza non si accigliò alla sua umile nascita E la Malinconia lo segnò per sé.

Grande era la sua generosità e la sua anima sincera Il cielo lo ricompensò con pari generosità Diede alla Miseria tutto ciò che aveva, una lacrima; ottenne dal cielo (era tutto ciò che desiderava) un amico.

Non cercare di svelare oltre i suoi meriti O di trarre le sue debolezze dalla loro spaventosa dimora (là essi riposano allo stesso modo in tremante speranza), il petto di suo Padre e del suo Dio.

Comment:

This elegy is a poem celebrating the lives of simple country people buried in a churchyard.

The poem is made up of 32 stanzas, each stanza of four lines. The stanzas are completed in themselves, but they’ve got to be read together.

Gray wrote this poem between 1742 and 1750, after the death of one of his best friends.

It belongs to the tradition of the Graveyard school.

An elegy is a lyrical poem that commemorates the death of someone, reflecting on important themes such as life, death and the loss of a beloved person.

It’s an example of  Gray’s mixture of classical elements (the high speech and the noble style) and romantic features.

In this composition, figures of sound and imagines(onomatopoeia, alliteration) are very important.

The description of a country landscape, at twilight, is characterised by the presence of some animals: the group of cows, the beetle and the owl.

The poet can see an “ivy-mantled tower”, it means that is in an ancient place.

The tomb it’s like a link to the world of the living. All is described through the poet’s eyes.

The “rude forefathers” come to be seen in the double role of both happy people and victims of nature and society.

Their tombs, silent and obscure, become therefore the natural conclusion of an equally silent and obscure life. This is symbolized by the “buried gem” and the “unseen flower” (st.14).

The whole poem is the imagine of melancholy.

The final epitaph is meant to be read after death.