Day 202: Blason

Blason is a form of poetry that compares the subject (usually a woman) to an object (diamonds, stars etc). This is not just something that is found in Elizabethan poetry, like in Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130, but also in modern poetry like Maya Angelou’s Still I rise.

At university I fell in love with the blason form because of Andrew Marvell’s To His Coy Mistress. The writer starts by complimenting his lover, describing how beautiful she is stating that he’d wait for her forever if time allowed it. He moves on to how fast time passes, that her beauty will fade and she will become nothing but dust. He then states that they should give I to their lust because life is short and tomorrow is not guaranteed. This was YOLO before it’s time. I think it’s brilliant, clever and very amusing.


Had we but world enough and time, 
This coyness, lady, were no crime. 
We would sit down, and think which way 
To walk, and pass our long love’s day. 
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side 
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide 
Of Humber would complain. I would 
Love you ten years before the flood, 
And you should, if you please, refuse 
Till the conversion of the Jews. 
My vegetable love should grow 
Vaster than empires and more slow; 
An hundred years should go to praise 
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; 
Two hundred to adore each breast, 
But thirty thousand to the rest; 
An age at least to every part, 
And the last age should show your heart. 
For, lady, you deserve this state, 
Nor would I love at lower rate. 
       But at my back I always hear 
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near; 
And yonder all before us lie 
Deserts of vast eternity. 
Thy beauty shall no more be found; 
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound 
My echoing song; then worms shall try 
That long-preserved virginity, 
And your quaint honour turn to dust, 
And into ashes all my lust; 
The grave’s a fine and private place, 
But none, I think, do there embrace. 
       Now therefore, while the youthful hue 
Sits on thy skin like morning dew, 
And while thy willing soul transpires 
At every pore with instant fires, 
Now let us sport us while we may, 
And now, like amorous birds of prey, 
Rather at once our time devour 
Than languish in his slow-chapped power. 
Let us roll all our strength and all 
Our sweetness up into one ball, 
And tear our pleasures with rough strife 
Through the iron gates of life: 
Thus, though we cannot make our sun 
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Thank you for reading.

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