Rugby Chapel
by Matthew Arnold (1822-1888)

Coldly, sadly descends
The autumn evening. The field
Strewn with its dank yellow drifts
Of withered leaves, and the elms,
Fade into dimness apace,
Silent; hardly a shout
From a few boys late at their play!
The lights come out in the street,
In the schoolroom windows; but cold,
Solemn, unlighted, austere,
Through the gathering darkness, arise
The chapel-walls, in whose bound
Thou, my father! art laid.

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The Call of the Wild
by Robert Service (1874-1958)

Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on,
⁠         Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,
⁠         Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?
Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,
⁠         Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?
Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it;
⁠         Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation,
⁠         The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?
Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation,
⁠         And learned to know the desert’s little ways?
Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o’er the ranges,
⁠         Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?
Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes?
⁠         Then listen to the Wild—it’s calling you.

Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?
⁠         (Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.)
Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river,
⁠         Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?
Have you marked the map’s void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races,
⁠         Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?
And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses?
⁠         Then hearken to the Wild—it’s wanting you.

Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, groveled down, yet grasped at glory,
⁠         Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?
“Done things” just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,
⁠         Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?
Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders?
⁠         (You’ll never hear it in the family pew.)
The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things—
⁠         Then listen to the Wild—it’s calling you.

They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching,
⁠         They have soaked you in convention through and through;
They have put you in a showcase; you’re a credit to their teaching—
⁠         But can’t you hear the Wild?—it’s calling you.
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;
⁠         Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There’s a whisper on the night-wind, there’s a star agleam to guide us,
⁠         And the Wild is calling, calling . . . let us go.

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To a Segar
by Samuel Low (1765-?)

Sweet antidote to sorrow, toil and strife,
Charm against discontent and wrinkled care,
Who knows thy power can never know despair;
Who knows thee not, one solace lacks of life:
When cares oppress, or when the busy day
Gives place to tranquil eve, a single puff
Can drive ev’n want and lassitude away,
And give a mourner happiness enough.
From thee when curling clouds of incense rise,
They hide each evil that in prospect lies;
But when in evanescence fades thy smoke,
Ah! what, dear sedative, my cares shall smother?
If thou evaporate, the charm is broke,
Till I, departing taper, light another.

Views: 42

The Dead
by Jones Very (1813-1880)

I see them crowd on crowd they walk the earth
Dry, leafless trees no Autumn wind laid bare,
And in their nakedness find cause for mirth,
And all unclad would winter’s rudeness dare;
No sap doth through their clattering branches flow,
Whence springing leaves and blossoms bright appear;
Their hearts the living God have ceased to know,
Who gives the spring time to th’expectant year;
They mimic life, as if from him to steal
His glow of health to paint the livid cheek;
They borrow words for thoughts they cannot feel,
That with a seeming heart their tongue may speak;
And in their show of life more dead they live
Than those that to the earth with many tears they give.

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Amitié
by Victor de Laprade (1812-1883)

Tous vos dieux sont les miens; vous aimez ce que j’aime,
Nos espoirs sont pareils, notre doute est le même;
Où vous le signalez, je vois aussi le mal,
Et nous marchons tous deux vers le même idéal.

Dans l’océan divin cherchant les perles neuves
Et les parcelles d’or dans le sable des fleuves,
Au fond des grandes eaux nous plongeons de concert,
Nous gardons en commun le trésor découvert.
Quand l’idée, en son vol, échappe à mes pieds frêles,
Mon âme, pour monter, vous emprunte vos ailes.
Aux régions d’en bas, je m’égare souvent;
Vous que Dieu mène et qui pénétrez plus avant,
Quand mon esprit s’arrête aux choses relatives,
Vous m’ouvrez tout à coup de larges perspectives,
Et, dans un horizon où vous seul avez lu,
Par delà nos soleils, vous montrez l’absolu.

Quand j’écris, je ne sais—tant l’un sent comme l’autre—
Si la page tracée est mon œuvre ou la vôtre.
De ces vers fraternels, je vous rends la moitié,
Et, sur l’humble fronton, j’inscris notre amitié.

Marchons unis toujours; la nuit tombe, nous sommes
Des étrangers perdus dans la cité des hommes;
Nous y parlons tout seuls une langue à nous deux,
Et nous comprenons mal ce qu’ils disent entre eux.
Nous ne sommes pas faits aux chemins de traverse;
Le but n’est pas le même où la route est diverse;
Si des noirs carrefours nous tentons les hasards,
Nous serons terrassés et broyés par les chars.

Veillons! plus d’un assaut se prépare dans l’ombre;
Le présent est mauvais et l’avenir plus sombre,
Plein d’outrages, d’effroi, de labeurs desséchants…
—Nous pourrons être heureux si nous sommes méchants!
Mais, ô frère en douleurs, restons dans notre voie,
Sans renier, pourtant, ni blasphémer la joie.
Il est, même ici-bas, des vestiges de Dieu,
Et le monde meilleur, parfois, s’y montre un peu;
Il est dans la tourmente, au bout de la mer triste,
Un phare ardent et fixe allumé pour l’artiste
Et versant des rayons pleins de sérénité…
—Viens! homme de désir, marchons vers la beauté!

Views: 37

“He seems like a god” (Fragment 31)
by Sappho (c. 630-570 BCE)

φαίνεταί μοι κῆνος ἴσος θέοισιν
ἔμμεν᾽ ὤνηρ, ὄττις ἐνάντιός τοι
ἰσδάνει καὶ πλάσιον ἆδυ φωνεί-
σας ὐπακούει

καὶ γελαίσας ἰμέροεν, τό μ᾽ ἦ μὰν
καρδίαν ἐν στήθεσιν ἐπτόαισεν·
ὠς γὰρ ἔς σ᾽ ἴδω βρόχε᾽, ὤς με φώναι-
σ᾽ οὐδ᾽ ἒν ἔτ᾽ εἴκει,

ἀλλ᾽ ἄκαν μὲν γλῶσσα ἔαγε, λέπτον
δ᾽ αὔτικα χρῶι πῦρ ὐπαδεδρόμηκεν,
ὀππάτεσσι δ᾽ οὐδ᾽ ἒν ὄρημμ᾽, ἐπιρρόμ-
βεισι δ᾽ ἄκουαι,

ἀ δέ μ᾽ ἴδρως ψῦχρος κακχέεται, τρόμος δὲ
παῖσαν ἄγρει, χλωροτέρα δὲ ποίας
ἔμμι, τεθνάκην δ᾽ ὀλίγω ᾽πιδεύης
φαίνομ᾽ ἔμ᾽ αὔται·

ἀλλὰ πὰν τόλματον ἐπεὶ καὶ πένητα …

Views: 38