The poem tells of the funeral of two lovers the phoenix, a mythological bird associated with immortality, and the turtledove (usually called "turtle" in Elizabethan English), a symbol of fidelity. The two birds have burned themselves to death in order to be forever joined in love. The allegory celebrates an ideal of love in which an absolute spiritual union of the lovers, defying rationality and common sense is chastely achieved through death, the ultimate refection of the world.

The Phoenix and the Turtle

The Phoenix and the Turtle William Shakespeare

Let the bird of loudest lay, On the sole Arabian tree, Herald sad and trumpet be, To whose sound chaste wings obey. But thou shrieking harbinger, Foul precurrer of the fiend, Augur of the fever's end, To this troop come thou not near. From this session interdict Every fowl of tyrant wing, Save the eagle, feather'd king: Keep the obsequy so strict. Let the priest in surplice white That defunctive music can, Be the death-divining swan, Lest the requiem lack his right. And thou treble-dated crow, That thy sable gender mak'st With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st, 'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go. So they lov'd, as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distincts, division none: Number there in love was slain. Hearts remote, yet not asunder; Distance, and no space was seen 'Twixt the turtle and his queen: But in them it were a wonder. So between them love did shine, That the turtle saw his right Flaming in the phoenix' sight; Either was the other's mine. Property was thus appall'd, That the self was not the same; Single nature's double name Neither two nor one was call'd. Reason, in itself confounded, Saw division grow together; To themselves yet either neither, Simple were so well compounded, That it cried, How true a twain Seemeth this concordant one! Love hath reason, reason none, If what parts can so remain. Whereupon it made this threne To the phoenix and the dove, Co-supremes and stars of love, As chorus to their tragic scene.

THRENOS.

Beauty, truth, and rarity, Grace in all simplicity, Here enclos'd in cinders lie. Death is now the phoenix' nest; And the turtle's loyal breast To eternity doth rest, Leaving no posterity: 'Twas not their infirmity, It was married chastity. Truth may seem, but cannot be; Beauty brag, but tis not she; Truth and beauty buried be. To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair; For these dead birds sigh a prayer…

William Shake-Speare.