Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the felds, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his frst splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

 

William Wordsworth

and then a plank, in reason, broke

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading - treading - till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum -
Kept beating - beating - till I thought
My mind was going numb -

 And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space - began to toll,

 As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here -

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down -
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing - then -

(Emily Dickinson)

Ode on Melancholy

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
       Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
       By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
               Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
       Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
               Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
       For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
               And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
       Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
       And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
       Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
               Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
       Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
               And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
       And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
       Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
       Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
               Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
       Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
               And be among her cloudy trophies hung.


(John Keats)

La belle dame sans merci

'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
 Alone and palely loitering?
 The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
 And no birds sing.

'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
 So haggard and so woe-begone?
 The squirrel's granary is full,
 And the harvest 's done.

 'I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew;
 And on thy cheeks a fading rose
 Fast withereth too.'

 'I met a lady in the meads,
 Full beautiful—a faery's child,
 Her hair was long, her foot was light,
 And her eyes were wild.

 'I made a garland for her head,
 And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
 She look'd at me as she did love,
 And made sweet moan.

 'I set her on my pacing steed
 And nothing else saw all day long,
 For sideways would she lean, and sing
 A faery's song.

'She found me roots of relish sweet,
 And honey wild and manna dew,
 And sure in language strange she said,
 "I love thee true!"

'She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sigh'd fill sore;
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four.

'And there she lullèd me asleep,
 And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide!
 The latest dream I ever dream'd
 On the cold hill's side.

'I saw pale kings and princes too,
 Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
 They cried—"La belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!"

 'I saw their starved lips in the gloam
 With horrid warning gapèd wide,
 And I awoke and found me here,
 On the cold hill's side.

'And this is why I sojourn here
 Alone and palely loitering,
 Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.'


(John Keats)

Tantas quimeras e idéias estranhas

"Retirei-me há tempos para minhas terras, resolvido, na medida do possível, a não me preocupar com nada, a não ser o repouso, e viver na solidão os dias que me restam. Parecia-me que não podia dar maior satisfação a meu espírito senão a ociosidade, para que se concentrasse em si mesmo, à contade; o que esperava pudesse ocorrer, porquanto, com o tempo, adquirira mais peso e maturidade. Mas percebo que "na ociosidade o espírito se dispersa em mil pensamentos diversos", e ao contrário do que imaginava, caracolando como um cavalo em liberdade, cria ele preocupações cem vezes maiores do que quando tinha um alvo preciso fora de si mesmo. E engendra tantas quimeras e idéias estranhas, sem ordem nem propósito, que para perceber-lhe melhor a inépcia e o absurdo, as vou consignando por escrito, na esperança de, com o correr do tempo, lhe infundir vergonha."

(Michel Eyquem de Montaigne, "Ensaios". Livro I, Capítulo VIII: "Da ociosidade")

XVI

Devo viver entre os homens
Se sou mais pêlo, mais dor
Menos garra e menos carne humana?
e não tendo armadura
E tendo quase muito de cordeiro
E quase nada de mão que empunha a faca
Devo continuar a caminhada?

Devo continuar a te dizer palavras
Se a poesia apodrece
Entre as ruínas da Casa que é a tua alma?
Ai, Luz que permanece no meu corpo e cara:
Como foi que desaprendi de ser humana?


(Hilda Hilst)

Força é mudares de vida

Não sabemos como era a cabeça, que falta,
De pupilas amadurecidas, porém
O torso arde ainda como um candelabro e tem,
Só que meio apagada, a luz do olhar, que salta

E brilha. Se não fosse assim, a curva rara
Do peito não deslumbraria, nem achar
Caminho poderia um sorriso e baixar
Da anca suave ao centro onde o sexo se alteara.

Não fosse assim, seria essa estátua uma mera
Pedra, um desfigurado mármore, e nem já
Resplandecera mais como pele de fera.

Seus limites não tranporia desmedida
Como uma estrela; pois ali ponto não há
Que não te mire. Força é mudares de vida.

(Rainer Maria Rilke, beautifully translated by Manuel Bandeira)

Ornamental knowledge

"Oho, now I know what you are. You are an advocate of Useful Knowledge."
"Certainly."
"You say that a man's first job is to earn a living, and that the first task of education is to equip him for that job?"
"Of course."
"Well, allow me to introduce myself to you as an advocate of Ornamental Knowledge. You like the mind to be a neat machine, equipped to work efficiently, if narrowly, and with no extra bits or useless parts. I like the mind to be a dustbin of scraps of brilliant fabric, odd gems, worthless but fascinating curiosities, tinsel, quaint bits of carving, and a reasonable amount of healthy dirt. Shake the machine and it goes out of order; shake the dustbin and it adjusts itself beautifully to its new position."

 (Robertson Davies, Tempest-Tost. Source.)

Norwegian music

Thoreau's journal, July 18, 1851

It is a test question affecting the youth of a person,—Have you knowledge of the morning? Do you sympathize with that season of nature? Are you abroad early, brushing the dews aside? If the sun rises on you slumbering, if you do not hear the morning cock-crow, if you do not witness the blushes of Aurora, if you are not acquainted with Venus as the morning star, what relation have you to wisdom and purity? You have then forgotten your Creator in the days of your youth! Your shutters were darkened till noon! You rose with a sick headache! In the morning sing, as do the birds. What of those birds which should slumber on their perches till the sun was a hour high? What kind of fowl would they be and new kinds of bats and owls, hedge sparrows or larks? then took a dish of tea or hot coffee before they began to sing?

Tantas e tais veleidades

Nave
Ave
Moinho
E tudo mais serei
Para que seja leve
Meu passo
Em vosso caminho.

***

Dizeis que tenho vaidades.
E que no vosso entender
Mulheres de pouca idade
Que não se queiram perder

É preciso que não tenham
Tantas e tais veleidades.

Senhor, se a mim me acrescento
Flores e renda, cetins,
Se solto o cabelo ao vento
É bem por vós, não por mim.

Tenho dois olhos contentes
E a boca fresca e rosada.
E a vaidade só consente
Vaidades, se desejada.

E além de vós
Não desejo nada.



(Hilda Hilst, Trovas de muito amor para um amado senhor)

Preludio

Las alamedas se van,
pero dejan su reflejo.

Las alamedas se van.
pero nos dejan el viento.

El viento está amortajado
a lo largo bajo el cielo.

Pero ha dejado flotando
sobre los ríos sus ecos.

El mundo de las luciérnagas
ha invadido mis recuerdos.

Y un corazón diminuto
me va brotando en los dedos.


(Federico Garcia Lorca)

Talk Fahrenheit

O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud --
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.

Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says "I burn."
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.

It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.


(Robert Frost)

Passages from Leonardo da Vinci's notebooks

The knowledge of past times and of the places on the earth is both an ornament and nutriment to the human mind.

***

Avoid studies of which the result dies with the worker.

***

Learning acquired in youth arrests the evil of old age; and if you understand that old age has wisdom for its food, you will so conduct yourself in youth that your old age will not lack for nourishment.

***

As a day well spent procures a happy sleep, so a life well employed procures a happy death.

***

Just as food eaten without caring for it is turned into loathsome nourishment, so study without a taste for it spoils memory, by retaining nothing which it has taken in.

***

Why does the eye see a thing more clearly in dreams than with the imagination being awake?

With music, feasting and fun

W.H. Auden, Loneliness:

Gate-crashing ghost, aggressive
invisible visitor,
tactless gooseberry, spoiling
my tête-à-tête with myself,
blackmailing brute, behaving
as if the house were your own,
so viciously pursuing
your victim from room to room,
monotonously nagging,
ungenerous jabberer,
dirty devil, befouling
fair fancies, making the mind
a quagmire of disquiet,
weakening my will to work,
shadow without shape or sex,
excluding consolation,
blotting out Nature's beauties,
grey mist between me and God,
pestilent problem that won't
be put on the black-burner,
hard it is to endure you.

Routine is the one technique
I know of that enables
your host to ignore you now:
while typing business letters,
laying the table for one,
gobbling a thoughtless luncheon,
I briefly forget you're there,
but am safe from your haunting
only when soundly asleep.

History counsels patience:
tyrants come, like plagues, but none
can rule the roost for ever.
Indeed, your totter is near,
your days numbered: to-morrow
Chester, my chum, will return.
Then you'll be through: in no time
he'll throw you out neck-and-crop.
We'll merry-make your cadence
with music, feasting and fun.

of three things one to crave

Were I a king I could command content.
Were I obscure, unknown should be my cares.
And were I dead, no thoughts should me torment,
Nor words, nor wrongs, nor loves, nor hopes, nor fears.
A doubtful choice, of three things one to crave,
A kingdom, or a cottage, or a grave.

(Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford. 1550-1604)

When the self is a nonentity

Who would, for preference,
be a bard in an oral culture,
obliged at drunken feasts to improvise a eulogy
of some beefy illiterate burner,
giver of rings, or depend for bread on the moods of a
Baroque Prince, expected,
like his dwarf, to amuse? After all, it's rather a privilege
amid the affluent traffic
to serve this unpopular art which cannot be turned into
background noise for study
or hung as a status trophy by rising executives,
cannot be "done" like Venice
or abridged like Tolstoy, but stubbornly still insists upon
being read or ignored: our handful
of clients at least can rune.

Our forerunners might envy us
our remnant still able to listen:
as Nietzsche said they would, the plebs have got steadily
denser, the optimates
quicker still on the uptake.

We're not musicians: to stink of Poetry
is unbecoming, and never
to be dull shows a lack of taste. Even a limerick
ought to be something a man of
honor, awaiting death from cancer or a firing squad,
could read without contempt: (at
that frontier I wouldn't dare speak to anyone
in either a prophet's bellow
or a diplomat's whisper).

Seeing you know our mystery
from the inside and therefore
how much, in our lonely dens, we need the companionship
of our good dead, to give us
comfort on dowly days when the self is a nonentity
dumped on a mound of nothing,
to break the spell of our self-enchantment when lip-smacking
imps of mawk and hooey
write with us what they will, you won't think me imposing if
I ask you to stay at my elbow
until cocktail time: dear Shade, for your elegy
I should have been able to manage
something more like you than this egocentric monologue,
but accept it for friendship's sake.

(W.H. Auden)

A love of idleness

Liev Tolstoi, War and Peace - Book Seven, Chapter 1:

The Bible legend tells us that the absence of labor—idleness—was a condition of the first man's blessedness before the Fall. Fallen man has retained a love of idleness, but the curse weighs on the race not only because we have to seek our bread in the sweat of our brows, but because our moral nature is such that we cannot be both idle and at ease. An inner voice tells us we are in the wrong if we are idle. If man could find a state in which he felt that though idle he was fulfilling his duty, he would have found one of the conditions of man's primitive blessedness.

I can read Latin, bunch o'fools

Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales (The Nun's Priest's Tale, lines 397-400):

For al so siker as In principio,
Mulier est hominis confusio -
Madame, the sentence of this Latyn is,
"Womman is mannes joye and al his blis."

***

Abuse of Women, Middle English popular Lyric, 14th-15th century:

Of all creatures women be best:
Cuius contrarium verum est.

In every place ye may well see,
That women be trewe as tirtyll on tree,
Not lyberall in langage, but ever in secree,
And gret joye amonge them ys for to be.
Cuius contrarium verum est.

The stedfastnes of women will never be don,
So jentyll, so curtes they be everychon,
Meke as a lambe, still as a stone,
Croked nor crabbed fynd ye none!
Cuius contrarium verum est.

Men be more cumbers a thowsandfold,
And I mervayll how they dare be so bold,
Agaynst women for to hold,
Seyng them so pascyent, softe and cold.
Cuius contrarium verum est.

For tell a women all your cownsayle,
And she can kepe it wonderly well;
She had lever go quyk to hell,
Than to her neyghbowr she wold it tell!
Cuius contrarium verum est.

For by women men be reconsiled,
For by women was never man begiled,
For they be of the condicion of curtes Gryzell
For they be so meke and mylde.
Cuius contrarium verum est.

Now say well by women or elles be still,
For they never displesed man by ther will;
To be angry or wroth they can no skill,
For I dare say they thynk non yll.
Cuius contrarium verum est.

Trow ye that women list to smater,
Or agaynst ther husbondes for to clater?
Nay, they had lever fast bred and water
Then for to dele is suche a mater.
Cuius contrarium verum est.

Thowgh all the paciens in the world were drownd,
And non were lefte here on the grownd,
Agayn in a woman it myght be fownd,
Suche vertu in them dothe abownd!
Cuius contrarium verum est.

To the tavern they will not goo,
Nor to the ale-hows never the moo,
For, God wot, ther hartes wold be woo,
To spende ther husbondes money soo.
Cuius contrarium verum est.

Yff here were a woman or a mayd,
That lyst for to go fresshely arayed,
Or with fyne kyrchers to go displayed,
Ye wold say, 'they be prowde!' It is yll said.
Cuius contrarium verum est.

Syngynge or floytynge al the day

With hym ther was his sone, a yong squier,
A lovyere and a lusty bacheler,
With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse.
Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse.
Of his stature he was of evene lengthe,
And wonderly delyvere, and of greet strengthe.
And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachie
In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Pycardie,
And born hym weel, as of so litel space,
In hope to stonden in his lady grace.
Embrouded was he, as it were a meede
Al ful of fresshe floures, whyte and reede.
Syngynge he was, or floytynge, al the day;
He was as fressh as is the month of May.
Short was his gowne, with sleves longe and wyde.
Wel koude he sitte on hors and faire ryde.
He koude songes make and wel endite,
Juste and eek daunce, and weel purtreye and write.
So hoote he lovede that by nyghtertale.
He sleep namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale.
Curteis he was, lowely, and servysable,
And carf biforn his fader at the table.

(The General Prologue to Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, lines 79-100. I too am very fond of syngynge, floytynge and it is also not wrong to say I sleep namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale. We would do really well, this youthful squire and myself.)

(And here's a modern translation.)