I'd just finished listening to my old favorite radio show, Jean Shepherd — a great episode, "Prison Life" — and I was out running in the woods at sunrise and had not even touched my iPhone, when I heard a sonorous voice launch into what I now know is Wordsworth:
I heard a thousand blended notes,While in a grove I sate reclined,In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughtsBring sad thoughts to the mind.To her fair works did Nature linkThe human soul that through me ran;And much it grieved my heart to thinkWhat man has made of man.Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;And ’tis my faith that every flowerEnjoys the air it breathes.The birds around me hopped and played,Their thoughts I cannot measure:—But the least motion which they madeIt seemed a thrill of pleasure.The budding twigs spread out their fan,To catch the breezy air;And I must think, do all I can,That there was pleasure there.If this belief from heaven be sent,If such be Nature’s holy plan,Have I not reason to lamentWhat man has made of man?
पोस्ट्स
१२ टिप्पण्या:
Though seasonally misplaced, it's still magnificent. God bless you, Spotify!
Not one of Wordsworth’s best.
Excelsior.
I love this poem! And it's one I'd not read before--thanks for posting. (What man has made of man indeed...)
They want you to find the invincible summer in your heart in the midst of winter. Or something like that.
Beware the Siberian Express. Them Ruskies are trying to freeze us out. Now is the time to burn more coal and oil to ramp up a little Global Warming 50 years from now. In the meantime get out axes to cut and split logs for the fireplaces.
Springtime is only a dream.
It's hard to affirm life when winter is coming on and you are old. This poem helps a little....When I think of the vastness of space and ponder what an infinitesimal fraction of that vastness is occupied by living matter, I take some comfort. Added to that I was born in America in mostly peaceful and prosperous times. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.....I've no reason to bitch about my fate, but, despite what Wordsworth says, nature is not always infused with surging life.
No, those birds are not "singing" out of happiness and harmony. They are announcing to their conspecifics, "Hear what a fine specimen I am. You should mate with me." "Hear what a fine specimen I am and what a fine territory I have. You should mate with me." "Hear what a fine specimen I am and what a fine territory I have. If you are another male, get the hell out of here."
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
Guy didn't need much to make him happy.
Midwinter spring is its own season
Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.
When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,
The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,
In windless cold that is the heart's heat,
Reflecting in a watery mirror
A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.
And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,
Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire
In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing
The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell
Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time
But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow
Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom
Of snow, a bloom more sudden
Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading,
Not in the scheme of generation.
Where is the summer, the unimaginable Zero summer?
I love Jean Shepard and didn't know his old radio shows were available. I first started reading him as a teenager when he had a monthly column in Car and Driver magazine.
Sorry for the redundancy in the first draft. I have to learn to proofread better.
“ I love Jean Shepard and didn't know his old radio shows were available.”
That spelling of the name will get you a female singer. Be sure to search for Jean Shepherd.
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