Sunday Scribblings: Wit

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is wit.

A metaphysical poem. The universe, our human spirit, and this dramatic thing called life. A definition of love or rather, a love of definition. Wit, irony, and wordplay.

This is one of my favorites from one of the metaphysical poets.



THE DEFINITION OF LOVE.
by Andrew Marvell


I.MY Love is of a birth as rare
    As 'tis, for object, strange and high ;
It was begotten by Despair,
    Upon Impossibility.

II.Magnanimous Despair alone
    Could show me so divine a thing,
Where feeble hope could ne'er have flown,
    But vainly flapped its tinsel wing.

III.And yet I quickly might arrive
    Where my extended soul is fixed ;
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
    And always crowds itself betwixt.

IV.For Fate with jealous eye does see
    Two perfect loves, nor lets them close ;
Their union would her ruin be,
    And her tyrannic power depose.

V.And therefore her decrees of steel
    Us as the distant poles have placed,
(Though Love's whole world on us doth wheel),
    Not by themselves to be embraced,

VI.Unless the giddy heaven fall,
    And earth some new convulsion tear.
And, us to join, the world should all
    Be cramp'd into a planisphere.

VII.As lines, so love's oblique, may well
    Themselves in every angle greet :
But ours, so truly parallel,
    Though infinite, can never meet.

VIII.Therefore the love which us doth bind,
    But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,
    And opposition of the stars.