Written by
Denise Levertov |
We live our lives of human passions,
cruelties, dreams, concepts,
crimes and the exercise of virtue
in and beside a world devoid
of our preoccupations, free
from apprehension--though affected,
certainly, by our actions. A world
parallel to our own though overlapping.
We call it "Nature"; only reluctantly
admitting ourselves to be "Nature" too.
Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions,
our self-concerns, because we drift for a minute,
an hour even, of pure (almost pure)
response to that insouciant life:
cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing
pilgrimage of water, vast stillness
of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane,
animal voices, mineral hum, wind
conversing with rain, ocean with rock, stuttering
of fire to coal--then something tethered
in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch
of gnawed grass and thistles, breaks free.
No one discovers
just where we've been, when we're caught up again
into our own sphere (where we must
return, indeed, to evolve our destinies)
--but we have changed, a little.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
WHOE’ER he be that sojourns here,
I pity much his case,
Unless he comes to wait upon
The Lord their God, His Grace.
There’s naething here but Highland pride,
And Highland scab and hunger:
If Providence has sent me here,
’Twas surely in his anger.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XLIII. Quel rosignuol che sì soave piagne. THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE REMINDS HIM OF HIS UNHAPPY LOT. Yon nightingale, whose bursts of thrilling tone,Pour'd in soft sorrow from her tuneful throat,Haply her mate or infant brood bemoan,Filling the fields and skies with pity's note;Here lingering till the long long night is gone,Awakes the memory of my cruel lot—But I my wretched self must wail alone:Fool, who secure from death an angel thought!O easy duped, who thus on hope relies!Who would have deem'd the darkness, which appears,From orbs more brilliant than the sun should rise?Now know I, made by sad experience wise,That Fate would teach me by a life of tears,On wings how fleeting fast all earthly rapture flies! Wrangham. Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows,Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate,A soothing charm o'er all the valleys throwsAnd skies, with notes well tuned to her sad state:And all the night she seems my kindred woesWith me to weep and on my sorrows wait;Sorrows that from my own fond fancy rose,Who deem'd a goddess could not yield to fate.How easy to deceive who sleeps secure!Who could have thought that to dull earth would turnThose eyes that as the sun shone bright and pure?Ah! now what Fortune wills I see full sure:That loathing life, yet living I should seeHow few its joys, how little they endure! Anon., Ox., 1795. That nightingale, who now melodious mournsPerhaps his children or his consort dear,The heavens with sweetness fills; the distant bournsResound his notes, so piteous and so clear;[Pg 269]With me all night he weeps, and seems by turnsTo upbraid me with my fault and fortune drear,Whose fond and foolish heart, where grief sojourns,A goddess deem'd exempt from mortal fear.Security, how easy to betray!The radiance of those eyes who could have thoughtShould e'er become a senseless clod of clay?Living, and weeping, late I've learn'd to sayThat here below—Oh, knowledge dearly bought!—Whate'er delights will scarcely last a day! Charlemont.
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