The poem that might entrance you when you're young might not be the poem for your older years. In my "mature" phase, poems that I earlier ignored take on new significance. I'm now quite taken with Tennyson's "Ulysses,'" a dramatic monologue that meant nothing to me until a few years ago. "Ulysses" celebrates perseverance, a late-onset virtue.
Another poem that I've latterly come to love is Robert Burns' jaunty "John Anderson my jo, John." To me, in my present incarnation, it's the most romantic poem in the English language (or, to be precise, the Scottish language). While most love poems celebrate desire and longing, "John Anderson," takes as its subject continuity and longevity. As opposed to more conventional works that come to climax with a wedding, "John Anderson" situates itself near the end of life and glances happily backward over a life well lived. Its frankness about bodily changes is comforting (especially to readers who may no longer glow with first youth). John Anderson may be bald and gray and tottering, but he's still loved and loving.
The cheerful woman who speaks the poem has lived "hand in hand" with John A. for a lifetime.
John Anderson, my jo, John dear
When we were first acquent, acquainted
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent; smooth
But now your brow is beld, John, bald
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty paw; head
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill tegither.
And many a cantie day, John, happy
We've had wi' ane anither.
Now we maun totter down, John must
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
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