Friday, July 26, 2024

JOAN'S DEATH POEMS: COLLECTED! (A Work in Progress)

Erato: Muse of Poetry

I did not write most of the works in his blog.  But I have loved and been inspired by them over the years.  And right now it is not all poems, despite the name of the blog.

Not all of these posts are about death and dying.  But I wanted everything here where I could find it.
Today in 2024, I have spent the past three years slowly recovering from painful and debilitating vertebral fractures (see www.JoansBackboneDisaster.com) and dealing with other painful and/or serious health challenges, some the result of general wear and tear, but others having their genesis in medical treatments at the hands of physicians who should have known better.  

 I have been unable to pursue most of my customary activities, I cannot travel, and pain is my daily companion.   Some days I have felt that I'd be better off dead.  So I started this blog and it is actually improving my spirits!  

I am so very grateful for teachers along the way who made us memorize poetry.  This has brought much pleasure to my life.  Not all of the poems here are ones I memorized, but most are poems I have loved over the years.  

 These poems have helped me define and cope with my feelings.

Just to make sure I wasn't making any mistakes I checked against originals online.  And was happily surprised that I was still pretty accurate! 

I've added some notes beneath many of these, mostly about when and how I encountered them.


This blog is a work in progress as I try to collect some poems that have helped me through my life and to this day.   

 Please note:
1.  there is some duplication in this blog. Partly this is because different poems meant different things to me at different times.   
   2. The organization of this blog is pretty sketchy. 
3. Someday I may fix this.
4. Or I may not. 

It would make me very happy if anyone reading this blog would select one or more of these poems to read, think about, and even memorize.  More than about death, these poems are about the meaning of life as seen by many great poets!

And please see the other posts in this blog for still more!
For example, I added The Lady of Shalott by Alfred Lord Tennyson to this blog in 2022.  

And please scroll down to the very foot of this blog for the blog archive with a complete list of the contents of this blog!  

There may be a few posts that are not poems.   I'll decide where to put these later. 


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A LEAP OF FAITH

I was coming home
I was coming home to die
I was coming home to die in my own bed
Although buoyed by this hope
I could feel my strength ebbing
As I struggled against the tide of life
That had finally turned against me
Suddenly, the world erupted
Into turbulence and confusion
I had reached the last hurdle
I would now have to overcome
With all the power remaining
In my mortal being
I leapt free from earths’ pull
And soared through the air
I am McSalmon of the Salmonidae
I was home, I was home to die
I was home to die in my own bed

Michael Ashby, Sidmouth


Michael Ashby - thefuneralpoem.com

I have always loved this poem since I first saw it in a magazine - I cannot remember where.  Now I identify with it more than ever as I try to pull myself together one last time to "get my affairs in order" as they say, while I still have some "koyakh un sekhl" (ability and strength) remaining.    I searched for this and found it in a funeral poem website - I'd be happy to have this read at mine.  I've tried so hard all my life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Excerpt from Morte d'Arthur by Alfred, Lord Tennyson  

     And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge: 
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
And God fulfils Himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within Himself make pure! but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them friend? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seëst—if indeed I go— 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 
```````````````````````````

My father used to recite the last nine lines of the above excerpt.  I think he had to memorize it in high school — and I have always loved it and it comforts me now.  This copy comes from:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



CCXXXIV. Coronach
Sir Walter Scott
HE is gone on the mountain,
  He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
  When our need was the sorest.
The font reappearing         5
  From the raindrops shall borrow;
But to us comes no cheering,
  To Duncan no morrow!
  
The hand of the reaper
  Takes the ears that are hoary,  10
But the voice of the weeper
  Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
  Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing  15
  When blighting was nearest.
  
Fleet foot on the correi,
  Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,
  How sound is thy slumber!  20
Like the dew on the mountain,
  Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
  Thou art gone—and for ever!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I memorized most of this in high school.  I meant to memorize it all but never got around to it.  But I still like it!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Say not the Struggle nought Availeth

by Arthur Hugh Clough

Say not the struggle nought availeth, 
     The labour and the wounds are vain, 
The enemy faints not, nor faileth, 
     And as things have been they remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; 
     It may be, in yon smoke concealed, 
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
     And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking 
     Seem here no painful inch to gain, 
Far back through creeks and inlets making, 
     Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 

And not by eastern windows only, 
     When daylight comes, comes in the light, 
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 
     But westward, look, the land is bright.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


We read this in Mr. Liddell's English Literature Survey class at Antioch College.  A question on his final exam asked us to explain "and not by eastern windows only." 

 I memorized the poem because I liked it a lot.  It still helps me keep my spirits up.  

 It helps me now when progress towards a normal pain-free life seems so unbearably slow. Thank you, Mr. Liddell.  I'm looking westward for that bright land. 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


William Shakespeare Sonnet 71  
No longer mourn for me when I am dead. 

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell; 
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so, 
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, 
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if (I say) you look upon this verse, 
When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan, 
And mock you with me after I am gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I memorized this Shakespeare sonnet in Mr. Peterson's high school senior English class.  Thank you Mr. Peterson for having us all buy that lovely little book of poetry: a Pocket Book "Deluxe Edition" with its hard covers and faux leather spine!

I still treasure mine!  Unfortunately it has been out of print for years, but at the foot of this blog I have added some links about some nice, compact  and attractive poetry anthologies where you'll find many of the poems included here. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Soldier


If I should die, think only this of me:
      That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
      In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
      Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
      Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
 And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
            In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
~~~~~~~~~~
We all had to memorize The Soldier in High School in Mr. Wilson's Sophomore English/History class, where we read about WWI along with the literature of that period.  Thank you, Mr. Wilson!  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A Psalm of Life by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 1807-1882

What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.

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 destined end or way; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 
   Find us farther than to-day. 

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 living Present! 
   Heart within, and God o’erhead! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
   We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 
   Footprints on the sands of time; 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 
   Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, 
A forlorn and shipwrecked 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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The above poem by Longfellow first encountered in High School, is here because it belongs here.    And so, I believe,  does, the following one by John Milton, On his Blindness. 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


On his Blindness
John Milton - 1608-1674

When I consider how my light is spent,
   Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
   And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
   My true account, lest He returning chide;
   "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
   Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best
   Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed,
   And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
   They also serve who only stand and wait."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you, Professor Arthur Liddell at Antioch College, where, besides your required survey course, I took your Chaucer course AND your Milton course.   

 For the last two, which were seminars, you invited me along with Arnold Leo, one of my dearest college friends (and friend to this day) to your home, where we were the only students, and the three of us sat in your cozy sunporch with tea, cookies and poetry.    This is a treasured college memory.  

 Milton's poem "On his Blindness" is not exactly a death poem but somehow it belongs here. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Prospice

Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat, 
The mist in my face, 
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 
I am nearing the place, 
The power of the night, the press of the storm, 
The post of the foe; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, 
Yet the strong man must go: 
For the journey is done and the summit attained, 
And the barriers fall, 
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, 
The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more, 
The best and the last! 
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore, 
And bade me creep past. 
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers 
The heroes of old, 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears 
Of pain, darkness and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, 
The black minute's at end, 
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, 
Shall dwindle, shall blend, 
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 
Then a light, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, 
And with God be the rest! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I first encountered this when I was very young; it frightened me!   Now I find it calming. 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Do you Fear the Wind — Hamlin Garland — 1860-1940

Do you fear the force of the wind,
The slash of the rain?
Go face them and fight them,
Be savage again.
Go hungry and cold like the wolf,
Go wade like the crane:
The palms of your hands will thicken,
The skin of your cheek will tan,
You'll grow ragged and weary and swarthy,
But you'll walk like a man! 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I first encountered "Do you Fear the Wind" in a children’s anthology called Silver Pennies when I was around six years old.  It has been there for me at difficult times in my life. 
Notwithstanding the last line!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In Flanders Fields  
by John McRae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
    That mark our place; and in the sky
    The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
    Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
        In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
    The torch; be yours to hold it high.
    If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
        In Flanders fields.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Read in Mr. Wilson's Sophomore Year English/History classes on WWI history and literature

More about In Flanders Fields at:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_Flanders_Fields
and http://www.flandersfieldsmusic.com/thepoem.html

And here is another take on this poem 
which I encountered many years later: 

 In Flanders Fields  BY Edward Clapham

 In Flanders fields the poppies grow; 
Their roots reach down to twine amongst the bones, 
The mouldering bones.

Each skull in grinning disbelief voices 
Its eternal question, for what? And no answer comes, 
No answer comes.

There are no lungs to find; 
Long rotted from within, from gasping breaths of gas, 
From choking gas.

No heroes these, but common men
Who selfless thought to serve, to do the right thing, 
Unquestioned right thing.

Their souls now wait deep underground; 
Deep amongst the rusting, shattered fragments of twisting Death, 
Of youthful Death.

Only the Sun kissed faces red; 
That wave upon the land above, serve to remind, 
Ever remind us.

In Flanders fields the poppies grow.

See more at: https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-flanders-fields-2/
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Idea 61: Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part   

 BY MICHAEL DRAYTON

Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part. 
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; 
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, 
That thus so cleanly I myself can free. 
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, 
And when we meet at any time again, 
Be it not seen in either of our brows 
That we one jot of former love retain. 
Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath, 
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies; 
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, 
And Innocence is closing up his eyes— 
Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, 
From death to life thou might’st him yet recover!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Another kind of death: the Death of Love.  
This poem has been a comfort to me for decades.  
I'm glad I memorized it in high school!

An explanation of "Idea 61"   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And not to be overlooked: 

Do not go gentle into that good night    Dylan Thomas: 1914-1953










Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

 Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

 Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And of course:  

Speech: “To be, or not to be, that is the question”

(from Hamlet, spoken by Hamlet)

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And more:  Here's a Yiddish poem that says it all!
I'll just include one stanza of this heartbreaker!



See Page 18, Vashti's Kloglid (Vashti's Lament) 
Translation:

So cried the Queen Vashti, 
With a bitter wail, 
That she must so young, 
Leave the world. 

Transliteration: 

Azoy veynt di Malke Vashti,
Mit a biter geveyn,
Az zi mus azoy yung,
Fun di velt avekgeyn. 

Here is this excerpt in the original Yiddish letters:

Queen Vashti is often cast as the “bad girl” of Purim.  But consider the terrible position in which she was placed, where she was forced to chose between her modesty or her life!   I feel sorry for her and think she got a bad rap in the Bible!  Read about her in the Book of Esther in the Bible and decide for yourself! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And Another Yiddish Song -- Harbstlid
(Autumn Song)

From the Yiddish - that best describes this— here transliterated from Yiddish letters, and with translation.  

Boyle Schaechter-Gottesman. Harbstlid (Song of Autumn)


See Lecture: "The Seasons"
For information about Schaechter-Gottesman, see the webpage by Jane Peppler entitled "Beyle Schaechter-Gottesman: poet, composer, living legend"

Ze, s'iz harbst
(See, it's fall)
Un vos gegrint fargelt, farvyanet. 
(And all that greened has yellowed, withered.)
Ze, s'iz harbst -- 
(See, it's fall) --
Un vos geblit fargeyt.
(And all that bloomed is gone.) ...
Un ikh, vos kh'hob gemeyn s'iz shtendik friling,
(And I who thought that spring would last forever,)
Un kh'halt in hant 
(And in my hand I hold)
Di gantse eybikeyt. 
(The whole Eternity.)
Oho, falndike bleter! 
(Oho, falling leaves!)
Oho, fliendike teg! 
(Oho, flying days!)
Oho, vi vel ikh itster blondzhen, 
(Oho, how will I wander now,)
Ven s'ligt gedichter nepl af man veg.
(When thick fog settles on my way.)

Kraken feygl, 
(Cawing birds)
Zogn troyerik: "Zay gezunt dir!" 
(Sadly say: "Good-bye!")
Krekhtst in fentster,
(Cawing in the window)
Un se klogt der vint: 
(The wind wails:)
"O, vi volt ikh itst avek fun danen" 
("Oh, I wish that I could get away from here)
Tsun a breg 
(To a shore)
Vu nokh der friling grint ..." 
(Where there is still green spring ...")
Oho, falndike ... Oho, falling ...
Flit der regn -- 
(The rain flies -- or driving rain)
A galop af vildn ferdl. 
(A gallop on a wild horse,)
(Roymt mir ayn a sod: er hot mikh holt.) 
Whispers secret love into my ear:
"Tsu vos zhe darfstu vartn afn friling, 
("Why do you need to wait for springtime,)
Az s'hot der osyen fule koyshns gold." 
(When autumn offers baskets full of gold?)
Oho, falndike, ... Oho, falling ...

Source: Schaechter-Gottesman, Beyle, 
Zumerteg: Tsvantsik zinglider. 
Yiddish League, 1990

Also performed here: 

by the Schaechter Techter  (Sisters, the poet’s granddaughters)

And see: 


Psalm 23.  I’ve always loved the King James Version best.   I wish I were more of a believer.  Heaven knows I tried my best, in every possible way, and it might have helped me now. 


23 The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Here’s help with the Hebrew of Psalms - once again, you can study the Hebrew here and then use the back arrow to return.

 This website is intended for Christians but I never learned Hebrew very well so this is helpful! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 And we cannot overlook the Book of Job!    
Here are links for a few sources of the latter:

 1. 
 https://www.kingjamesbibleonline.org/Job-Chapter-1/
2.   
 https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/book-of-iyov-job
3.  https://www.chabad.org/library/bible_cdo/aid/16403/jewish/Chapter-1.htm
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




But What if Dying Isn't so Bad?  Let's ask Mark Twain!
I do not fear death. I had been dead for billions and billions of years before I was born, and had not suffered the slightest inconvenience from it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Robert Browning: Rabbi Ben Ezra
Rabbi Ben Ezra by Robert Browning | Poetry Foundation 

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith "A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!''

Not that, amassing flowers,
Youth sighed "Which rose make ours,
Which lily leave and then as best recall?"
Not that, admiring stars,
It yearned "Nor Jove, nor Mars;
Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!"

Not for such hopes and fears
Annulling youth's brief years,
Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!
Rather I prize the doubt
Low kinds exist without,
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.

Poor vaunt of life indeed,
Were man but formed to feed
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast:
Such feasting ended, then
As sure an end to men;
Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

Rejoice we are allied
To That which doth provide
And not partake, effect and not receive!
A spark disturbs our clod;
Nearer we hold of God
Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.

Then, welcome each rebuff
That turns earth's smoothness rough,
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!
Be our joys three-parts pain!
Strive, and hold cheap the strain;
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

For thence,—a paradox
Which comforts while it mocks,—
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:
What I aspired to be,
And was not, comforts me:
A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.

What is he but a brute
Whose flesh has soul to suit,
Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play?
To man, propose this test—
Thy body at its best,
How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

Yet gifts should prove their use:
I own the Past profuse
Of power each side, perfection every turn:
Eyes, ears took in their dole,
Brain treasured up the whole;
Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn?"

Not once beat "Praise be Thine!
I see the whole design,
who saw power, see now love perfect too:
Perfect I call Thy plan:
Thanks that I was a man!
Maker, remake, complete,—I trust what Thou shalt do!"

For pleasant is this flesh;
Our soul, in its rose-mesh
Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest;
Would we some prize might hold
To match those manifold
Possessions of the brute,—gain most, as we did best!

Let us not always say,
"Spite of this flesh to-day
I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!"
As the bird wings and sings,
Let us cry "All good things
Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!"

Therefore I summon age
To grant youth's heritage,
Life's struggle having so far reached its term:
Thence shall I pass, approved
A man, for aye removed
From the developed brute; a god though in the germ.

And I shall thereupon
Take rest, ere I be gone
Once more on my adventure brave and new:
Fearless and unperplexed,
When I wage battle next,
What weapons to select, what armour to indue.

Youth ended, I shall try
My gain or loss thereby;
Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold:
And I shall weigh the same,
Give life its praise or blame:
Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.

For note, when evening shuts,
A certain moment cuts
The deed off, calls the glory from the grey:
A whisper from the west
Shoots—"Add this to the rest,
Take it and try its worth: here dies another day."

So, still within this life,
Though lifted o'er its strife,
Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last,
This rage was right i' the main,
That acquiescence vain:
The Future I may face now I have proved the Past."

For more is not reserved
To man, with soul just nerved
To act to-morrow what he learns to-day:
Here, work enough to watch
The Master work, and catch
Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play.

As it was better, youth
Should strive, through acts uncouth,
Toward making, than repose on aught found made:
So, better, age, exempt
From strife, should know, than tempt
Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death nor be afraid!

Enough now, if the Right
And Good and Infinite
Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own
With knowledge absolute,
Subject to no dispute
From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone.

Be there, for once and all,
Severed great minds from small,
Announced to each his station in the Past!
Was I, the world arraigned,
Were they, my soul disdained,
Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!

Now, who shall arbitrate?
Ten men love what I hate,
Shun what I follow, slight what I receive;
Ten, who in ears and eyes
Match me: we all surmise,
They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe?

Not on the vulgar mass
Called "work," must sentence pass,
Things done, that took the eye and had the price;
O'er which, from level stand,
The low world laid its hand,
Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:

But all, the world's coarse thumb
And finger failed to plumb,
So passed in making up the main account;
All instincts immature,
All purposes unsure,
That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount:

Thoughts hardly to be packed
Into a narrow act,
Fancies that broke through language and escaped;
All I could never be,
All, men ignored in me,
This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the 
pitcher shaped.

 Ay, note that Potter's wheel,
That metaphor! and feel
Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,—
Thou, to whom fools propound,
When the wine makes its round,
"Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!"

Fool! All that is, at all,
Lasts ever, past recall;
Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure:
What entered into thee,
That was, is, and shall be:
Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.

He fixed thee mid this dance
Of plastic circumstance,
This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest:
Machinery just meant
To give thy soul its bent,
Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.

What though the earlier grooves,
Which ran the laughing loves
Around thy base, no longer pause and press?
What though, about thy rim,
Skull-things in order grim
Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?

Look not thou down but up!
To uses of a cup,
The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal,
The new wine's foaming flow,
The Master's lips a-glow!
Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what need'st thou with earth's wheel?

But I need, now as then,
Thee, God, who mouldest men;
And since, not even while the whirl was worst,
Did I,—to the wheel of life
With shapes and colours rife,
Bound dizzily,—mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst:

So, take and use Thy work:
Amend what flaws may lurk,
What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim!
My times be in Thy hand!
Perfect the cup as planned!
Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I first encountered Rabbi Ben Ezra in a greatly abridged version in high school.  Thanks again, Mr. Peterson!

 Oh Robert Browning you made this list TWICE!  (The first time with "Prospice" printed above.   Here are some notes: 


Robert Browning (May 7, 1812 – December 12, 1889) was an English poet and playwright who, along with Alfred Lord Tennyson is perhaps one of the most well-remembered poets of the Victorian era. Browning lived in a time of transition in British poetry; the great sweep of Romanticism had reached its end, and it would be some decades well after Browning's death before the new excitement of the modernwould burst onto the poetic scene. This period of interregnum in English literature would become dominated by poets attempting to transmute the wild energy of the Romantic age into new and tempered forms. Despite this reputation, much of the great advances and revolutions in poetic thinking that would sweep the world beginning in the twentieth century had their genesis in the Victorian era, and one of the greatest poets of this age was Browning.

And certainly Shakespeare spoke to this topic. 
Sonnet 71 is also elsewhere in this blog.  

Sonnet 71: No longer mourn for me when I am dead

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell; 
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so, 
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, 
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if (I say) you look upon this verse, 
When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan, 
And mock you with me after I am gone.
````````````````````````````````
This is the version at: 

Read more about this sonnet at:
and

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
 Thanks for reading and have a great life!

Joan Levin

Some Notes on this Blog
and More Resources

This blog is a work in progress as I try to collect poems that I have encountered in many venues along the way that have helped me through my life and to this day. 

 But other have put together much more ambitious collections.  Here is one of the websites I found interesting:  
And here are some compact poetry anthologies with many of these works.  They are all lovely collections - all worth having!
1.  Pocket Book of Poetry by Fall River Press.
I'm sorry to say that the fine little "deluxe" Pocket Book of Verse edited by M. E. Speare which I loved in years past is no longer in print or even available used at a reasonable price.  But maybe you'll run across it!

 But see the Pocket Book of Poetry,  Leather Bound -- January 2014 by "various" at Amazon. It seems to have many of the same poems -- sixty of them!  And it has a nice "leatherette" cover and a reasonable price at Amazon.com.   


2. The Random House Treasury of Best-Loved Poems, edited by Louis Phillips, First Edition 1990, Second Edition 1995.   This too is a lovely little book with a blue or brown leatherette cover (depending on its age).  It also appears to be out of print but available from many dealers at Amazon.  An excellent anthology.

 3. Best Remembered Poems, Edited and Annotated by Martin Gardner.
Very nice collection, in print and at a good price in the Dover Paperback series.  Not as nice-looking a gift as the first two but a good collection with useful text about the authors and their poems. 
###


at

JOAN'S DEATH POEMS: COLLECTED! (A Work in Progress)

Erato: Muse of Poetry I did not write most of the works in his blog.  But I have loved and been inspired by them over the years.  And right ...