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Philosophical Musings...
THE
ARROW AND THE SONG
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I
shot an arrow in the air,
It
fell to earth, I knew not where;
For,
so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could
not follow in its flight.
I
breathed a song into the air,
It
fell to earth, I knew not where;
For
who has sight so keen and strong
That
it can follow the flight of song?
Long,
long afterward, in an oak
I
found the arrow, still unbroke;
And
the song, from beginning to end,
I
found again in the heart of a friend
CONSCIENCE
Henry
David Thoreau
Conscience
is instinct bred in the house,
Feeling
and Thinking propagate the sin
By
an unnatural breeding in and in.
I
say, Turn it out doors,
Into
the moors.
I
love a life whose plot is simple,
And
does not thicken with every pimple,
A
soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it,
That
makes the universe no worse than ‘t finds it.
I
love an earnest soul,
Whose
mighty joy and sorrow
Are
not drowned in a bowl,
And
brought to life to-morrow;
That
lives one tragedy,
And
not seventy;
A
conscience worth keeping;
Laughing
not weeping;
A
conscience wise and steady,
And
forever ready;
Not
changing with events,
Dealing
in compliments;
A
conscience exercised about
Large
things, where one may doubt.
I
love a soul not all of wood,
Predestinated
to be good,
But
true to the backbone
Unto
itself alone,
And
false to none;
Born
to its own affairs,
Its
own joys and own cares;
By
whom the work which God begun
Is
finished, and not undone;
Taken
up where he left off,
Whether
to worship or to scoff;
If
not good, why then evil,
If
not good god, good devil.
Goodness!
you hypocrite, come out of that,
Live
your life, do your work, then take your hat.
I
have no patience towards
Such
conscientious cowards.
Give
me simple laboring folk,
Who
love their work,
Whose
virtue is song
To
cheer God along.
THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS
(Rudyard
Kipling 1865)
When
the flush of a newborn sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree
and scratched with a stick in the mold;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen
was joy to his mighty heart,
Till
the Devil whispered behind the leaves: “It’s
pretty, but is it Art?”
Wherefore
he called to his wife and fled to fashion his work anew
The
first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;
And he left his lore to the use of his sons,
and that was a glorious gain
When
the Devil chuckled: “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain.
They
builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
Till
the Devil grunted behind the bricks: “It’s striking, but is it Art?”
The stone was dropped by the quarry-side,
and the idle derrick swung,
While each man talked of the aims of art,
and each in an alien tongue.
They
found and they talked in the north and the south
They
talked and they fought in the west,
Till the waters rose on the jabbering land,
and the poor red clay had rest
Had rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn
when the dove was preened to start,
And
the Devil bubbled below the keel: “It’s
human, but is it Art?”
The
tale is old as the Eden Tree, as new as the new cut tooth
For each man knows ere his lip thatch grows
he is master of Art and Truth;
And each man hears as the twilight nears,
to the beat of his dying heart,
The
Devil drum on the darkened pane: “You did it, but was it Art?”
We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree
to the shape of a surplice peg,
We have learned to bottle our parents twain
in the yolk of an addled egg,
We know that the tail must wag the dog,
as the horse is drawn by the cart;
But
the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: “It’s clever, but is it Art?”
When the flicker of London’s sun falls faint
on the club room’s green and gold,
The sons of Adam sit them down
and scratch with their pens in the mold
They scratch with their pens in the mold of their graves,
and the ink and the anguish
start
When
the Devil mutters behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”
Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree
where the four great rivers flow,
And
the wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,
And if we could come when the sentry slept,
and softly scurry through,
By the favor of God we might know as much
as our father Adam knew.
DON'T TAKE YOUR TROUBLES TO BED
Edmund Vance Cooke (1866-1932)
You may labor your fill, friend of mine, if you will;
You may worry a bit, if you must;
You may treat your affairs as a series of cares,
You may live on a scrap and a crust;
But when the day's done, put it out of your head;
Don't take your troubles to bed.
You may batter your way through the thick of the fray,
You may sweat, you may swear, you may grunt;
You may be a jack-fool if you must, but this rule
Should ever be kept at the front: --
Don't fight with your pillow, but lay down your head
And kick every worriment out of the bed.
That friend or that foe (which he is, I don't know),
Whose name we have spoken as Death,
Hovers close to your side, while you run or you ride,
And he envies the warmth of your breath;
But he turns him away, with a shake of his head,
When he finds that you don't take your troubles to bed.
THE
GRASS SO LITTLE HAS TO DO
Emily
Dickinson
The
Grass so little has to do
A
Sphere of simple Green
With
only Butterflies to brood
And
Bees to entertain
And
stir all day to pretty Tunes
The
Breezes fetch along
And
hold the Sunshine in its lap
And
bow to everything
And
thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls
And
make itself so fine.
A
Duchess were too common
For
such a noticing.
And
even when it dies - to pass
In
Odors so divine
Like
Lowly spices, lain to sleep
Or
Spikenards, perishing
And
then, in Sovereign Barns to dwell
And
dream the Days away,
The
Grass so little has to do-
I
wish I were a Hay.
HOPE
IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS
Emily
Dickinson
"Hope"
is the thing with feathers
That
perches on the soul
And
sings the tune without the words
and
never stops - at all
And
sweetest - in the Gale - is heard
And
sore must be the storm
That
could abash the little Bird
That
kept so many warm.
I've
heard it in the chillest land
And
on the strangest Sea,
Yet,
never, in Extremity,
It
asked a crumb - of Me.
IF
Rudyard
Kipling
If
you can keep your head when all about you
Are
losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If
you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But
make allowance for their doubting too;
If
you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or,
being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or
being hated don’t give way to hating,
And
yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If
you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If
you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If
you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And
treat those two imposters just the same:
If
you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted
by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or
watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And
stoop and build’em with worn-out tools;
If
you can make one heap of all your winnings
And
risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And
lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And
never breathe a word about your loss:
If
you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To
serve your turn long after they are gone,
And
so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except
the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”
If
you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or
walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If
neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If
all men count with you, but none too much:
If
you can fill the unforgiving minute
With
sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours
is the Earth and everyone that’s in it,
And—which
is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
MY
MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS
Sir
Edward Dyer (1543-1607)
My
mind to me a kingdom is;
Such
perfect joy therein I find
That
it excels all other bliss
Which
God or nature hath assign’d.
Though
much I want that most would have,
Yet
still my mind forbids to crave.
No
princely port, nor wealthy store,
No
force to win a victory.
No
wily wit to salve a sore,
No
shape to win a loving eye;
To
none of these I yield as thrall,
For
why? My mind despise them all.
I
see that plenty surfeit oft,
And
hasty climbers soonest fall;
I
see that such as are aloft
Mishap
doth threaten most of all.
These
get with toil and keep with fear;
Such
cares my mind can never bear.
I
press to bear no haughty sway,
I
wish no more than may suffice,
I
do no more than well I may,
Look,
what I want my mind supplies.
Lo!
Thus I trumph like a king,
My
mind content with anything.
I
laugh not at another’s loss,
Nor
grudge not at another’s gain;
No
worldly waves my mind can toss;
I
brook that is another’s bane.
I
fear no foe, nor fawn on friend,
I
loathe not life, nor dread mine end.
My
wealth is health and perfect ease,
And
conscience clear my chief defence;
I
never seek by bribes to please,
Nor
by desert to give offence.
Thus
do I live, thus will I die,
Would
all did so as well as I!
PISAN CANTOS, LXXXI
Ezra Pound
What thou lovest well remains,
the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage
Whose world, or mine or theirs
or is it of none?
First came the seen, then thus the palpable
Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,
What thou lovest well is thy true heritage
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
RUMORS
FROM AN AEOLIAN HARP
Henry
David Thoreau (1840-1844)
There
is a vale which none hath seen,
Where
foot of man has never been,
Such as here lives with toil and strife,
An
anxious and a sinful life.
There
every virtue has its birth,
Ere
it descends upon the earth
And
thither every deed returns,
Which
in the generous bosom burns.
There love is warm, and youth is young,
And
poetry is yet unsung.
For
virtue still adventures there,
And
freely breathes her native air.
And
ever, if you hearken well,
You still may hear its vesper bell,
and tread of high-souled men go by,
Their
thoughts conversing with the sky.
THE
VOICELESS
Oliver
Wendell Holmes
We
count the broken lyres that rest
Where
the sweet, wailing singers slumber,
But
o’er their silent sister’s breast
The
wild flowers who will stoop to number?
A
few can touch the magic string,
And
noisy Fame is proud to win them:
Alas
for those that never sing
But
die with all their music in them!
Nay,
grieve not for the dead alone
Whose
song has told their hearts’ sad story,
Weep
for the voiceless, who have known
The
cross without the crown of glory!
Not
when Leucadian breezes sweep
O’er
Sappho’s memory-haunted billow,
But
where the glistening night-dews weep
On
nameless sorrow’s churchyard pillow.
O
hearts that break and give no sign,
Save
whitening lip and fading tresses,
Till
Death pours out his cordial wine
Slow-dropped
from Misery’s crushing presses;
If
singing breath or echoing chord
To
every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As
sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!
WHAT
THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tell
me not, in mournful numbers,
Life
is but an empty dream!
For
the soul is dead that slumbers,
And
things are not what they seem.
Life
is real - life is earnest –
And
the grave is not its goal;
Dust
thou art, to dust returnest,
Was
not spoken of the soul.
Not
enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is
our destin’d end or way;
But
to act, that each tomorrow
Find
us farther than today.
Art
is long, and time is fleeting,
And
our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still,
like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral
marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In
the bivouac of Life,
Be
not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be
a hero in the strife!
Trust
no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let
the dead Past bury its dead.
Act
-- act in the glorious Present!
Heart
within, and God o’er head.
Lives
of great men all remind us
We
can make our lives sublime,
And,
departing, leave behind us
Footsteps
on the sands of time.
Footsteps,
that, perhaps another,
Sailing
o’er life’s solemn main,
A
forlorn and shipwreck’d brother,
Seeing,
shall take heart again.
Let
us then be up and doing,
With
a heart for any fate;
Still
achieving, still pursuing,
Learn
to labor and to wait.
WINTER
STORES
Charlotte
Bronte
WE
take from life one little share,
And say that this shall be
A
space, redeemed from toil and care,
From
tears and sadness free.
And,
haply, Death unstrings his bow
And
Sorrow stands apart,
And,
for a little while, we know
The
sunshine of the heart.
Existence
seems a summer eve,
Warm,
soft, and full of peace;
Our
free, unfettered feelings give
The
soul its full release.
A
moment, then, it takes the power,
To
call up thoughts that throw
Around
that charmed and hallowed hour,
This
life's divinest glow.
But
Time, though viewlessly it flies,
And
slowly, will not stay;
Alike,
through clear and clouded skies,
It
cleaves its silent way.
Alike
the bitter cup of grief,
Alike
the draught of bliss,
Its
progress leaves but moment brief
For
baffled lips to kiss.
The
sparkling draught is dried away,
The
hour of rest is gone,
And
urgent voices, round us, say,
"
Ho, lingerer, hasten on !"
And
has the soul, then, only gained,
From
this brief time of ease,
A
moment's rest, when overstrained,
One
hurried glimpse of peace ?
No;
while the sun shone kindly o'er us,
And
flowers bloomed round our feet,–
While
many a bud of joy before us
Unclosed
its petals sweet,–
An
unseen work within was plying;
Like
honey-seeking bee,
From
flower to flower, unwearied, flying,
Laboured
one faculty,–
Thoughtful
for Winter's future sorrow,
Its
gloom and scarcity;
Prescient
to-day, of want to-morrow,
Toiled
quiet Memory.
'Tis
she that from each transient pleasure
Extracts
a lasting good;
'Tis
she that finds, in summer, treasure
To
serve for winter's food.
And
when Youth's summer day is vanished,
And
Age brings Winter's stress,
Her
stores, with hoarded sweets replenished,
Life's
evening hours will bless.
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