"The Legacy," a poem written by John Donne, a poet during
the reign of James I in England, is a love poem.
This is a
lovely poem about how much the speaker loves the woman in his life. He first
describes:
When I died last, and, Dear, I die
As
often as from thee I go,
Though it be but an hour ago,
And Lovers'
hours be full eternity,
I can remember yet, that I
Something did
say, and something did
bestow;
The speaker is saying
that he loves this woman so much that every time he leaves her, it's like he dies (a
metaphor). It does not matter if it's only been an hour: because for lovers, hours
separated from each other seem like an eternity. He then says that he left (bestowed)
something: it was his legacy—I believe that he intended for it to
be his heart.
The second stanza continues with this
theme.
I
heard me say, "Tell her anon,
That myself, that is you, not I,
Did
kill me," and when I felt me die,
I bid me send my heart, when I was
gone,
But alas could there find none,
When I had ripp'd me, and
search'd where hearts should
lie;
Here the speaker says:
tell her that I did not kill myself, but that she is
responsible—she killed me, metaphorically speaking. (In the leaving
it would seem that it was not his wish to be separated from her, in that he suffers so
much being separated from her...so he may be inferring that
she signaled that their time together was over for that day.) The
speaker goes on to say that he then tried to send her is heart, but when he went to the
spot where his heart would be kept, he could not find
it.
The last two lines of the second
stanza:
It kill'd me again, that I who
still was true,
In life, in my last will should href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/cozen">cozen
you.
This means that he died
all over again when he realized that even though during his life he had been true and
faithful only to her, that in these last moments he should cozen ("cheat") her of his
heart.
In the last stanza, the speaker indicates that he
did find something similar to a heart, with the same color, but it had corners instead
of being rounded. It wasn't good or bad; in its entirety ("intire"), it had few parts.
He seems to describe it as something perhaps made by art: not the real thing. But
still—
I meant
to send this heart in stead of mine,
But oh, no man could hold it, for 'twas
thine.
He wants to send the
poor "version" of the heart he has to her, but even that is
impossible—no man could carry it to her because it already belongs
to her.
This is a wonderful poem—great for Valentine's
Day!
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