I am appalled at the editions of John Donne’s ‘Ecstasy’ available on the Internet. Donne was among the most precise minds to write in English. Moving commas around can destroy his poems. This isn’t the case with Shakespeare or Chaucer. Their language is robust, meant to be broadly spoken. Donne’s is for careful reading.
Here are the offenders: the Oxford Book of English Verse (at Bartleby) is properly punctuated, but prints only the first five strophes. Luminarium has a rendering. It has semicolons everywhere for no good reason besides straitjacketing a freer English into modern use, and lots of punctuation with grates on the ear:
He—though he knew not which soul spake,
Because both meant, both spake the same—
What is that dash there to break up the line? The pause here goes at the end of the first line. That’s why it was put there. Incompetech’s version has somewhat better punctuation, but has entirely abandoned the strophic structure. Poetry X has both abandoned the strophic structure and egregiously punctuated.
But this is nothing compared to the essays I found. This one from some graduate student is merely trite, and occupies itself either with telling us what is said more clearly in the poem or with things totally irrelevant to it. This one doesn’t even understand the first strophe! Then it goes on to give a PowerPoint presentation of the rest of the poem.
So, in the interests of western civilization, I am putting the text of the poem (in the version due to Ezra Pound, found in his ABC of Reading) online. It doesn’t have the original spelling, but I think it’s otherwise unexceptionable.
Where like a pillow on a bed
A pregnant bank swell’d up to rest
The violet’s reclining head
Sat we two, one another’s best.
Our hands were firmly cémented
By a fast balm which thence did spring,
Our eye-beams twisted and did thread
Our eyes upon one double string
So to engraft our hands, as yet
Was all the means to make us one,
And pictures in our eyes to get
Was all our propogation.
As twixt two equal armies Fate
Suspends uncertain victory,
Our souls, which to advance their state
Were gone out, hung twixt her and me.
And whilst our souls negotiate there,
We like sepulchral statues lay.
All day the same our postures were
And we said nothing all the day.
If any, so by love refined
That he soul’s language understood
And by good love were grown all mind,
Within convenient distance stood,
He, though he knew not which soul spake
(Because both meant, both spoke the same),
Might thence a new concoction take
And part far purer than he came.
This ecstasy doth unperplex,
We said, and tell us what we love,
We see by this it was not sex
We see, we saw not what did move,
But as alll several souls contain
Mixture of things they know not what,
Love these mixed souls doth mix again
And make both one, each this to that.
A single violet transplant,
The strength, the colour and the size,
All, which before was poor and scant,
Redoubles still and multiplies,
When love with one another so
Interinanimates two souls
That abler soul which thence doth flow
Defects of loneliness controls,
We then, who are this new soul, know
Of what we are composed and made,
For th’anatomies of which we grow
Are souls whom no change can invade.
But O alas, so long, so far
Our bodies why do we forbear?
They are ours though they’re not we. We are
Th’intelligences, they the spheres.
We owe them thanks because the thus
Did us to us at first convey;
Yielded their foces to us
Nor are dross to us, but allay.*
On man heaven’s influence works no so
But that it first imprints the air,
So soul into soul may flow
Though it to body first repair.
As our blood labours to beget
Spirits as like souls as it can
Because such fingers need to knit
That subtle knot which makes us man.
So must pure lovers’ souls descend
To affections and to faculties
Which sense may reach and apprehend
Else a great prince in prison lies.
To our bodies turn we then that so
Weak men on love reveal’d may look,
Love’s mysteries in souls do grow
But yet the body is his book.
And if some lover such as we
Have heard this dialogue of one,
Let him still make us, he shall see
Small change when we’re to bodies gone.
*alloy, i.e., that which makes metal fit for a given purpose
The only thing that might need any comment is that the second two lines of the fifteenth strophe are a single sentence with the four lines of the sixteenth: “So soul into soul may flow…because such fingers need to knit the subtle knot…” Pound wants to say that “bodies” in the last strophe is a technical term for atoms. I think that’s unnecessarily deep, and that it can refer perfectly well to when their souls return to their bodies from hanging between them.