I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –
Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of Eye –
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –
Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide of narrow Hands
To gather Paradise –
Emily Dickinson
Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no
No question was asked me – it could not be so!
If the life was the question, a thing sent to try
And to live on be yes; what can no be? To die.
NATURE’S ANSWER
Is’t returned, as ’twas sent? Is’t no worse for the wear?
Think first, what you are! Call to mind what you were!
I gave you innocence, I gave you hope,
Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope,
Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair?
Make out the invent’ry ; inspect, compare !
Then die –if die you dare !
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
A poem written by Walter Whitman, an American poet. This is one of those poems which I think reflects my own self. And something that I think will affect me profoundly in years to come. Excerpts.
* * *
There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth, I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself, (They do not know how immortal, but I know.)
Vivas to those who have fail’d! And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known!
Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity goes to the fourth-remov’d, I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.
Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious?
I know I am solid and sound, To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow, All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.
All truths wait in all things, They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it, They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon, The insignificant is as big to me as any, (What is less or more than a touch?)
I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree-toad is a chef-d’oeuvre for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven, And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery, And the cow crunching with depress’d head surpasses any statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.
Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister? I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon me, All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with lamentation, (What have I to do with lamentation?)
I am an acme of things accomplish’d, and I an encloser of things to be.
All forces have been steadily employ’d to complete and delight me, Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul.
I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.
WALT WHITMAN
The full text of the poem can be found here.
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends –
It gives a lovely light!
EDNA ST VINCENT MILLAY
Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack’d anything.
“A guest,” I answer’d, “worthy to be here”;
Love said, “You shall be he.”
“I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee.”
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
“Who made the eyes but I?”
“Truth, Lord, but I have marr’d them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.”
“And know you not,” says Love, “who bore the blame?”
“My dear, then I will serve.”
“You must sit down,” says Love, “and taste my meat.”
So I did sit and eat.
GEORGE HERBERT
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from pining –
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dreary see now flows between; –
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, Christabel
We are the music-makers
And we are the dreamers of dreams
Wandering by the lone sea-breakers
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems
SIR ARTHUR EDDINGTON
Re-engraved time after time,
Ever in their youthful prime
My designs unchanged remain
Time may rage but rage in vain
For above Time’s troubled fountains
On the Great Atlantic mountains
In my golden house on high
There they shine eternally
WILLIAM BLAKE
This poem, by a less known poet, Sarah Doudney, is one of those childhood favourites of mine. I found it in the introduction to one of Ruskin Bond’s books. It also happens to be a favourite of Bond’s.
The pure, the bright, the beautiful,
That stirred our hearts in youth,
The impulse to a wordless prayer,
The dreams of love and truth;
The longings after something lost,
The spirirt’s yearning cry,
The striving after better hopes…
These things can never die
SARAH DOUDNEY
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