Milton's Sonnet 23

In graduate school, I was the Milton guy. Every time Paradise Lost was mentioned in the past two years, or Milton more generally, the eyes in the room turned to me for, well, I'm not sure what--a knowing nod of approval? a smile as my boy is mentioned? This, as I see it, reflects two things: the increasing specialization of the university (something I do not like at all, but am not writing now to complain about), and the fact that the old Puritan poet has fallen quite out of esteem in the popular consciousness. Everyone reads Shakespeare in high school, very few read Milton. I could get in to why I think this is and why I think it is wrong, but I won't do that here either. Here, I am just going to post this incredibly haunting and beautiful video of the British actor Ian Richardson reciting Milton's "Sonnet 23" and let it do the convincing for me. Watch the video before you read what little I have to say below.

Take a moment to dry your eyes.


Good. This poem is moving even if you know nothing of Milton. The classical allusion, the fading vision of a dead spouse, the haunting final image of day bringing back night (who hasn't felt this before?). The loss is clear, palpable. 


But if you know some things about Milton it comes alive with even more meaning. Sonnet 23 was written after the death of Milton's second wife, Catharine Woodcock, who died in childbirth slightly less than a year into their marriage in 1656. Milton's first wife, Mary Powell, had died in 1652 from the same cause. There is a debate about who this poem is about. (To me it is not much of a debate, as it seems to be quite clearly about Catharine Woodcock, but critics must have something to talk about.) 


The poem is further enhanced by another biographical tidbit about Milton--namely, he was blind when he wrote this, losing his sight finally sometime around 1653. This explains why he cannot see the woman he imagines is his late espoused saint, and why his sight of her is fancied. He never saw his wife, whom he loved dearly, and his only hope of seeing her short of heaven is in his dreams. How heartwrenching is that? It also lends extra gravity to the final line. Day, quite literally, brings back night for Milton. It is only in his dreams and fancies that he can see. He must have wished for dreams, longed to imagine the sight of someone he loved so. 


St. Paul, in his great chapter on love in 1 Corinthians, writes that "now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known." I have always taken these verses to be talking about the way we see God--that we only have a glimpse, can only see through a dim glass, a dark mirror. And this is true. But this little poem makes me wonder if Paul is not also talking about other people in this passage, even ourselves. My sight makes me think I can see others. But it occurs to me that I don't ever. Not really. Not face to face, not in full. Milton, in his blindness, understood this better than I ever will. When he looked at his wife without sight he saw her purity and goodness and sweetness and love. In other words, when he looked at her he saw her. 


You should read Milton. Trust me, I'm the Milton guy.