Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path there be or none,
While a fair region round the traveler lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
With Thought and Love companions of our way,
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,
The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.
Wordsworth's birthday passed recently, so I thought it an opportune time to share one of my favorite Wordsworth poems. It is indeed sweet to ramble through nature, looking anywhere your fancy takes you. If all else fails in life, the mind and its "internal heaven" will always provide inspiration when Thought and Love don't. The poem is a beautiful blend of self-reliance and harmony with nature, and appreciation of the beauty of both the world and the mind.
Thursday, April 9, 2015
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Fragment 1: Sea-ward, white gleaming thro' the busy scud - Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Sea-war, white gleaming thro' the busy scud
With arching Wings, the sea-mew o'er my head
Posts on, as bent on speed, now passaging
Edges the stiffer Breeze, now, yielding, drifts,
Now floats upon the air, and sends from far
A wildly-wailing Note.
A sea-mew is a common gull, or mew gull, just to clarify what might be the one confusing part of this poem. Apart from that, it really is a simple and evocative poem. A gull winging overhead, floating upon the breeze, sometimes working against it. Anyone who has lived remotely near a coastline can picture it fairly well. The emotional content of the poem almost feels mystical or reverent, though it can change for everyone. This is Coleridge at the height of Romanticism, so I think awe at the grandeur and mystery of nature is the goal, but again, to each their own.
With arching Wings, the sea-mew o'er my head
Posts on, as bent on speed, now passaging
Edges the stiffer Breeze, now, yielding, drifts,
Now floats upon the air, and sends from far
A wildly-wailing Note.
A sea-mew is a common gull, or mew gull, just to clarify what might be the one confusing part of this poem. Apart from that, it really is a simple and evocative poem. A gull winging overhead, floating upon the breeze, sometimes working against it. Anyone who has lived remotely near a coastline can picture it fairly well. The emotional content of the poem almost feels mystical or reverent, though it can change for everyone. This is Coleridge at the height of Romanticism, so I think awe at the grandeur and mystery of nature is the goal, but again, to each their own.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Ypres - Laurence Binyon
She was a city of patience; of proud name,
Dimmed by neglecting Time; of beauty and loss;
Of acquiescence in the creeping moss.
But on a sudden fierce destruction came
Tigerishly pouncing: thunderbolt and flame
Showered on her streets, to shatter them and toss
Her ancient towers to ashes. Riven across,
She rose, dead, into never-dying fame.
White against heavens of storm, a ghost, she is known
To the world's ends. The myriads of the brave
Sleep round her. Desolately glorified,
She, moon-like, draws her own far-moving tide
Of sorrow and memory; toward her, each alone,
Glide the dark dreams that seek an English grave.
Ypres, an ancient city in West Flanders, Belgium, is the subject of this haunting poem, set against the backdrop of the unimaginable horrors of the first world war. Ypres was a center of several prolonged battles between German and Allied forces during the war, and as the poem alludes, experienced awful devastation. The war did come upon "her" as the poem personifies, with a "sudden fierce destruction." It was an ancient city, mentioned as far back as Roman times, and more recently in The Canterbury Tales, and remains an important cultural center today. Ypres was one of the first places to experience chemical warfare, and as such, today is an advocate for cities never being targets of war again.
The poem itself, in addition to recounting the awful destruction which fell upon the city, celebrates its longevity. "She rose, dead, into never-dying fame." The city, a bombed out, hollowed out shell, is forever remembered in the mind of the world. All around the ruined cities lie "the myriads of the brave," those war dead who fell in and around it.
I don't often like doing this, but I feel it's important in this case. Here is what the city looked like after its bombing in the war:
And to end this entry on a happier note, here is Ypres today, restored:
Dimmed by neglecting Time; of beauty and loss;
Of acquiescence in the creeping moss.
But on a sudden fierce destruction came
Tigerishly pouncing: thunderbolt and flame
Showered on her streets, to shatter them and toss
Her ancient towers to ashes. Riven across,
She rose, dead, into never-dying fame.
White against heavens of storm, a ghost, she is known
To the world's ends. The myriads of the brave
Sleep round her. Desolately glorified,
She, moon-like, draws her own far-moving tide
Of sorrow and memory; toward her, each alone,
Glide the dark dreams that seek an English grave.
Ypres, an ancient city in West Flanders, Belgium, is the subject of this haunting poem, set against the backdrop of the unimaginable horrors of the first world war. Ypres was a center of several prolonged battles between German and Allied forces during the war, and as the poem alludes, experienced awful devastation. The war did come upon "her" as the poem personifies, with a "sudden fierce destruction." It was an ancient city, mentioned as far back as Roman times, and more recently in The Canterbury Tales, and remains an important cultural center today. Ypres was one of the first places to experience chemical warfare, and as such, today is an advocate for cities never being targets of war again.
The poem itself, in addition to recounting the awful destruction which fell upon the city, celebrates its longevity. "She rose, dead, into never-dying fame." The city, a bombed out, hollowed out shell, is forever remembered in the mind of the world. All around the ruined cities lie "the myriads of the brave," those war dead who fell in and around it.
I don't often like doing this, but I feel it's important in this case. Here is what the city looked like after its bombing in the war:
And to end this entry on a happier note, here is Ypres today, restored:
Monday, April 6, 2015
On Education - Elizabeth Bentley
December 1789
When infant Reason first exerts her sway,
And new-formed thoughts their earliest charms display;
Then let the growing race employ your care
Then guard their opening minds from Folly's snare;
Correct the rising passions of their youth,
Teach them each serious, each important truth;
Plant heavenly virtue in the tender breast,
Destroy each vice that might its growth molest;
Point out betimes the course they should pursue;
Then with redoubled pleasure shall you view
Their reason strengthen as their years increase,
Their virtue ripen and their follies cease;
Like corn sown early in the fertile soil,
The rich harvest shall repay your toil.
As someone who has been an educator, and knows many other educators, this poem couldn't help but make me smile a bit. Despite some disagreements I have with Elizabeth Bentley's views on what the exact role of education is (I'm less for programming than she is), it's clear that we agree on the main thing: education is insurance for the future and investing in the education of the young is the surest way to guarantee our futures. I think all educators can relate to the desire for one's pupils to grow in a healthy manner, too, even if I don't think it's our job to "plant heavenly virtue."
When infant Reason first exerts her sway,
And new-formed thoughts their earliest charms display;
Then let the growing race employ your care
Then guard their opening minds from Folly's snare;
Correct the rising passions of their youth,
Teach them each serious, each important truth;
Plant heavenly virtue in the tender breast,
Destroy each vice that might its growth molest;
Point out betimes the course they should pursue;
Then with redoubled pleasure shall you view
Their reason strengthen as their years increase,
Their virtue ripen and their follies cease;
Like corn sown early in the fertile soil,
The rich harvest shall repay your toil.
As someone who has been an educator, and knows many other educators, this poem couldn't help but make me smile a bit. Despite some disagreements I have with Elizabeth Bentley's views on what the exact role of education is (I'm less for programming than she is), it's clear that we agree on the main thing: education is insurance for the future and investing in the education of the young is the surest way to guarantee our futures. I think all educators can relate to the desire for one's pupils to grow in a healthy manner, too, even if I don't think it's our job to "plant heavenly virtue."
Friday, April 3, 2015
[Tell all the truth but tell it slant] - Emily Dickinson
Tell all the truth but tell it slant -
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind -
A classic Emily Dickinson poem which explains itself well. We as people are "infirm" when confronted with someone so radical and dazzling as the capital "T" Truth. However, we can understand it. It just has to be slanted a bit, told in a way that will not terrify us too too much. Come to think of it, a poem is an indirect way of telling Truth. Fancy that!
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind -
A classic Emily Dickinson poem which explains itself well. We as people are "infirm" when confronted with someone so radical and dazzling as the capital "T" Truth. However, we can understand it. It just has to be slanted a bit, told in a way that will not terrify us too too much. Come to think of it, a poem is an indirect way of telling Truth. Fancy that!
Thursday, April 2, 2015
On the Death of Anne Brontë - Charlotte Brontë
There's little joy in life for me,
And little terror in the grave;
I've lived the parting hour to see
Of one I would have died to save.
Calmly to watch the failing breath,
Wishing each sigh might be the last;
Longing to see the shade of death
O'er those belovèd features cast.
The cloud, the stillness that must part
The darling of my life from me;
And then to thank God from my heart,
To thank Him well and fervently;
Although I knew that we had lost
The hope and glory of our life;
And now, benighted, tempest-tossed,
Must bear alone the weary strife.
Think of this poem as a sort of spiritual companion piece to the one I posted a week or so ago, by Anne herself. Both poems deal with the death of a loved one, and how we, the living, can react. Here, Charlotte, the last surviving of the Brontë sisters, pours out her grief at losing Anne, and resigns herself to bearing "alone the weary strife" of life. She isn't afraid of death, because she's seen the "parting hour...of one [she] would have died to save."
At the end of suffering, she thanks God well and fervently despite the difficulty in doing so, because at last, her sister is freed from suffering. There is no morsel of happiness for Charlotte's future in this poem. It is pain and grace encapsulated, and beautiful.
And little terror in the grave;
I've lived the parting hour to see
Of one I would have died to save.
Calmly to watch the failing breath,
Wishing each sigh might be the last;
Longing to see the shade of death
O'er those belovèd features cast.
The cloud, the stillness that must part
The darling of my life from me;
And then to thank God from my heart,
To thank Him well and fervently;
Although I knew that we had lost
The hope and glory of our life;
And now, benighted, tempest-tossed,
Must bear alone the weary strife.
Think of this poem as a sort of spiritual companion piece to the one I posted a week or so ago, by Anne herself. Both poems deal with the death of a loved one, and how we, the living, can react. Here, Charlotte, the last surviving of the Brontë sisters, pours out her grief at losing Anne, and resigns herself to bearing "alone the weary strife" of life. She isn't afraid of death, because she's seen the "parting hour...of one [she] would have died to save."
At the end of suffering, she thanks God well and fervently despite the difficulty in doing so, because at last, her sister is freed from suffering. There is no morsel of happiness for Charlotte's future in this poem. It is pain and grace encapsulated, and beautiful.
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
A Song: Strephon, your breach of faith and trust - Laetitia Pilkington
Strephon, your breach of faith and trust
Afford me no surprise;
A man who grateful was, or just,
Might make my wonder rise.
That heart to you so fondly tied,
With pleasure wore its chain,
But from your cold neglectful pride,
Found liberty again.
For this no wrath inflames my mind,
My thanks are due to thee;
Such thanks as gen'rous victors find,
Who set their captives free.
Laetitia Pilkington is not surprised by this man, Strephon's, betrayal. Rather, she expected it. Anyone honest would have just made her wondrous. When it comes to matters of love, feeling utterly vexed over one's feelings for someone one knows is bad for them is an old problem indeed. It was true in the early half of the 18th century when Pilkington wrote this, true today, and true thousands of years ago. She writes honestly and directly.
It's worth noting that "fondly" as it's used in the second stanza doesn't have the same meaning we think of it having today. "Fondly" then had the meaning of "foolishly" and as such, the stanza makes more sense. She stayed foolishly attached to Strephon because of the pleasure she took in being with him. Thanks to his cold negligence though, she found her emotional freedom once more, and thanks him for being such an ass that she was able to get over him.
Afford me no surprise;
A man who grateful was, or just,
Might make my wonder rise.
That heart to you so fondly tied,
With pleasure wore its chain,
But from your cold neglectful pride,
Found liberty again.
For this no wrath inflames my mind,
My thanks are due to thee;
Such thanks as gen'rous victors find,
Who set their captives free.
Laetitia Pilkington is not surprised by this man, Strephon's, betrayal. Rather, she expected it. Anyone honest would have just made her wondrous. When it comes to matters of love, feeling utterly vexed over one's feelings for someone one knows is bad for them is an old problem indeed. It was true in the early half of the 18th century when Pilkington wrote this, true today, and true thousands of years ago. She writes honestly and directly.
It's worth noting that "fondly" as it's used in the second stanza doesn't have the same meaning we think of it having today. "Fondly" then had the meaning of "foolishly" and as such, the stanza makes more sense. She stayed foolishly attached to Strephon because of the pleasure she took in being with him. Thanks to his cold negligence though, she found her emotional freedom once more, and thanks him for being such an ass that she was able to get over him.
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