The Collar
The Cry of the Restless Soul
The speaker cries out against his constrained life, mourning lost harvests and questioning the worth of his suffering.
I struck the table and cried, "No more—I'm going out."1 What? Am I always going to sigh and waste away? My lot and my life are free—free as the open road, loose as the wind, as wide as plenty.2 Must I always stay a petitioner?3 Have I no harvest but a thorn to bleed me, and not give back what I've lost with healing fruit?4 Surely there was wine before my sighs dried it up; there was grain before my tears drowned it.5 Is the year lost only to me? Don't I have any laurels to crown it? No flowers, no bright garlands? All blighted? All wasted?
The Temptation to Break Free
The speaker resolves to abandon his self-imposed restraints and seize pleasure, but his rebellion intensifies as he justifies his desire for freedom.
Not so, my heart: there is still fruit, and you have hands. Win back all the years you've sighed away with double pleasures: drop your cold debate about what's fitting and what's not. Leave your cage, your rope of sand, which petty thoughts have made, and made for you into strong cable, to force and pull you, and be your law, while you closed your eyes and would not see. Get rid of it—note this: I'm going out. Call in that death's-head of yours: bind up your fears.6 Whoever holds back from meeting and serving his own need deserves his load.
The Surrender to Grace
In the midst of his raving, the speaker hears the Lord's tender call and responds with humble submission.
But as I raved, growing fiercer and wilder with every word, it seemed I heard someone calling, "Child," and I replied, "My Lord."7
Read the original English
I struck the board, and cry'd, No more; I will abroad. What? shall I ever sigh and pine? My lines and life are free; free as the rode, Loose as the winde, as large as store. Shall I be still in suit? Have I no harvest but a thorn To let me bloud, and not restore What I have lost with cordiall fruit? Sure there was wine Before my sighs did drie it: there was corn Before my tears did drown it. Is the yeare onely lost to me?
Have I no bayes to crown it? No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted? All wasted? Not so, my heart: but there is fruit, And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sigh-blown age On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute Of what is fit, and not. Forsake thy cage, Thy rope of sands, Which pettie thoughts have made, and made to thee Good cable, to enforce and draw, And be thy law, While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. Away; take heed, I will abroad.
Call in thy deaths head there: tie up thy fears. He that forbears To suit and serve his need, Deserves his load. But as I rav'd and grew more fierce and wilde At every word, Me thoughts I heard one calling, Childe: And I reply'd, My Lord.
Notes
- 1 ↩board: table (striking it in angry resolve). abroad: out into the open world / free of restraint, not foreign travel.
- 2 ↩lines: allotted portion/lot of life (cf. boundary-lines of inheritance), not merely verse-lines; rode = road; store = abundance/plenty.
- 3 ↩in suit: still attending as a suitor/petitioner (waiting on favors), not clothing.
- 4 ↩let me bloud: bloodletting (medical/metaphorical bleeding). cordiall fruit: restorative, heart-strengthening fruit, not merely 'cordial' in the modern social sense.
- 5 ↩corn: grain in general (British Early Modern sense), not maize.
- 6 ↩death's-head: a skull as memento mori; the speaker is still telling himself to put away that reminder of death and restrain his fears so he can go free.
- 7 ↩Me thoughts = methought, 'it seemed to me'; the turn from raving rebellion to the answering 'My Lord' is the poem's conversion pivot.
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