And all my war is done

I’m revisiting what I wrote about my favourite poet, Sir Thomas Wyatt; he was born in 1503 and crammed a huge amount of living into his thirty-nine years. He was very tall for a man of the time, well over six-foot, and as you can see from the picture below, stunningly handsome. As well as being a poet, a poet who changed English poetry fundamentally, but he was a courtier to Henry VIII and an ambassador to Rome. He may have had an affair with Ann Boleyn, may have, and was imprisoned on suspicion. He did not die there, and was released within a year. he died in 1542 of some illness.

This is what I wrote previously:

I am really enjoying discovering the sonnets of Sir Thomas Wyatt. I was first introduced to him by an inspirational lecturer I had when I was doing my degree, Anthony Easthope. He read several of Wyatt’s works, and the way he explained them and brought them alive, without spoiling the poetry of the verse is as vivid now as all those years ago when we sat in the smoky rooms at college. yes, we could smoke inside then, even in lectures we were all puffing away… how dreadful we must have smelled!

We only read a few poems by Thomas Wyatt, and recently I have been exploring, and loving more of his work. The meanings behind them are as true as when he wrote them, nothing new under the sun!

I find no peace, and all my war is done

I find no peace, and all my war is done;
I fear, and hope; I burn, and freeze like ice;
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I seize on;
That locketh nor loseth holdeth me in prison,
And holdeth me not, yet can I ‘scape nowise:
Nor letteth me live, nor die at my devise,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I ‘plain;
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health;
I love another, and thus I hate myself;
I feed me in sorrow, and laugh in all my pain.
Likewise displeaseth me both death and life,
And my delight is causer of this strife

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