Into my heart’s treasury
I slipped a coin
That time cannot take
Nor a thief purloin,—
Oh, better than the minting
Of a gold-crowned king
Is the safe-kept memory
Of a lovely thing.
What value can be placed on beauty? Teasdale suggests that the memory of lovely things is more precious than material wealth.
Mark carefully
this lesson of anguish—old in winters
I warn you by this. It is wondrous to see
how almighty God in his endless wisdom
grants unto man a mind to rule with
kingdom and meadhall to keep until death.
At times the Measurer maker of us all
brings moments of pleasure to those proud man-thoughts
gives to that war king worldly power-goods
hall and homeland to hold for his own
renders him ruler of regions of the earth
a broad kingdom—he cannot forsee
in his own unwisdom an end to such wealth.
He dwells in happiness no hindrance bothers him
no illness or age or evil reckoning
darkens his mind no deep serpent thoughts
edge-hate in his heart—but all thisloan-world
bends to his will welcomes him with gold
till high thron-ethoughts throng into his mind
gather in his head. Then the guardian sleeps
the soul’s warden—it slumbers too long
while a silent slayer slips close to him
shoots from his bow baleful arrows.
Deep into his heart hard under shield-guard
strikes the arrowhead—no armor withstands
that quiet marksman cold mind-killer.
What he long has held too little contents him
greed grapples him he gives no longer
gold-patterened rings reckons no ending
of borrowed treasure-years bright earth-fortune
granted by God the great Measurer.
The last of splendor slips into darkness
the loaned king-body cracks upon the pyre
swirls away in smoke—soon another one
steps to the gift-throne shares his goldhoard
turns that treachery to trust and reward.
Guard against life-bale beloved Beowulf
best of warriors win for your soul
eternal counsel—care not for pride
great shield-champion! The glory of your strength
lasts for a while but not long after
sickness or spear-point will sever you from life
or the fire’s embrace or the flood’s welling
or the file-hard sword or the flight of a spear
or bane-bearing age—the brightness of your eye
will dim and darken. Destiny is waiting
and death will take you down into the earth.
This is one of my favorite passages of Beowulf, in which the Danish king Hrothgar joyfully meets Beowulf after Beowulf’s victory over the troll-wife. But rather than delivering the effusive praise one might expect, Hrothgar warns Beowulf with ‘bountiful words’ against the entrapment of pride. I highly recommend Rebsamen’s vigorous translation of this anonymous Anglo-Saxon poem. ‘Each one among us shall mark the end of this worldly life. Let him who may earn deeds of glory before death takes him—after life-days honor-fame is best.’
“Quiet, please!” says the librarian.
I nod and pass with a softened tread
Through the quiet ranks of books, and then
Choose one that I have not yet read.
“Quiet, please!” said the librarian,
But pirates leap on the shining deck,
Clamber over briny ropes, and then
Sing raucous ballads about a wreck.
“Quiet, please!” said the librarian,
But the jungles crash beneath the stamp
Of the rajah’s elephant, and then
Follows a procession with stately tramp.
“Quiet, please!” said the librarian,
But the horse’s hooves sound loud and clear,
The scaly dragon roars flames, and then
Knight George has freed the folk from fear.
“Well, well,” says the librarian,
“You have been nice and quiet today.”
I nod and smile politely, then
Claim, “It’s not as quiet as they say.”
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country’s wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow’d mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knells is rung;
By forms unseen their dirges sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall while repair
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!
Buttercups and daisies—
Oh the pretty flowers,
Coming ere the springtime
To tell of sunny hours.
While the trees are leafless
While the fields are bare,
Buttercups and daisies
Spring up here and there.
Ere the snowdrop peepeth,
Ere the crocus bold,
Ere the early primrose
Opes its paly gold,
Somewhere on a sunny bank
Buttercups are bright;
Somewhere ‘mong the frozen grass
Peeps the daisy white.
Little hard-flowers
Like to children poor,
Playing in their sturdy health
By their mother’s door:
Purple with the north wind,
Yet alert and bold;
Fearing not and caring not,
Though they be a-cold.
What to them is weather!
What are stormy showers!
Buttercups and daisies
Are these human flowers!
He who gave them hardship
And a life of care,
Gave them likewise hardy strength,
And patient hearts, to bear.
Welcome yellow buttercups,
Welcome daisies white,
Ye are in my spirit
Visioned, a delight!
Coming ere the springtime
Of sunny hours to tell—
Speaking to our hearts of Him
Who doeth all things well.
A simple ring with a single stone,
To the vulgar eye no stone of price:
Whisper the right word, that alone—
Forth starts a sprite, like fire from ice,
And lo, you are lord (says an Eastern scroll)
Of heaven and earth, lord whole and sole
Through the power in a pearl.
A woman (’tis I this time that say)
With little worth the world counts worthy praise
Utter the true word—out and away
Escapes her soul: I am wrapt in blaze,
Creation’s lord, of heaven and earth
Lord whole and sole—by a minute’s birth—
Through the love in a girl!
Lo I the man, whose muse whilome did mask,
(As time her taught), in lowly shepherd’s weeds,
Am now enforced a far unfitter task,
For trumpets stern, to change mine Oaten reeds,
And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds;
Whose praises having slept in silence long,
Me, all too mean, the Muse areeds
To blazon broad amongst her learnéd throng:
Fierce wars and faithfull loves shall moralize my song.
I come in the little things,
Saith the Lord:
Not borne on morning wings
Of majesty, but I have set My Feet
Amidst the delicate and bladed wheat
That springs triumphant in the furrowed sod
There do I dwell, in weakness and in power:
Not broken or divided, saith our God!
In your straight garden plot I come to flower:
About your porch My Vine
Meek, fruitful, doth entwine;
Waits, at the threshold, Love’s appointed hour.
I come in little things,
Saith the Lord:
Yea! on the glancing wings
Of eager birds, the softly pattering feet
Of furred and gentle beasts. I come to meet
Your hard and wayward heart. In brown eyes
That peep from out the brake, I stand confest
On every nest
Where feathery Patience is content to brood
And leaves her pleasure for the high emprize
Of motherhood—
There doth My Godhead rest.
I come in little things,
Saith the Lord:
My starry wings
I do forsake,
Love’s highway of humility to take.
Meekly I fit My stature to your need.
In beggar’s part
About your gates I shall not cease to plead—
As man, to speak with man—
Till by such art
I shall achieve My Immemorial Plan.
Pass the low lintel of the human heart.
‘Immanence’ is defined as the state of being within a given domain. In philosophy and metaphysics, the word can refer to the belief that the Divine Spirit is seen to be manifest in the natural world. It is sometimes contrasted with ‘transcendence’—the idea that God exists outside the natural world. Many believe, as I do, that the Bible makes clear a beautiful and mysterious relationship between the two.
Denise Levertov
Hail, space for the uncontained God.—Agathistos Hymn, Greece
We know the scene: the room, variously furnished,
almost always a lectern, a book; always
the tall lilly.
Arrived on solemn grandeur of great wings,
the angelic ambassador, standing or hovering,
whom she acknowledges, a guest. But we are told of meek
obedience. No one mentions
courage.
The engendering Spirit
did not enter her without consent.
God waited. She was free
to accept or to refuse, choice
integral to humanness.
Aren’t there annunciations
of one sort or another
in most lives?
Some unwillingly
undertake great destinies,
enact them in sullen pride,
uncomprehending.
More often
those moments
when roads of light and storm
open from darkness in a man or woman,
are turned away from
in dread, in a wave of weakness, in despair
and with relief.
Oridnary lives continue.
God does not smite them.
But the gates close, the pathway vanishes.
She had been a child who played, ate, slept
like any other child—but unlike others,
wept only for pity, laughed
in joy not triumph.
Compassion and intelligence fused in her, indivisible.
Called to a destiny more momentous
than any in all of Time,
she did not quail,
only asked
a simple, ‘How can this be?’
and gravely, courteously,
took to heart the angel’s reply,
perceiving instantly
the astounding ministry she was offered: to bear in her womb
Infinite weight and lightness; to carry
in hidden, finite inwardness,
nine months of Eternity; to contain
in slender vase of being,
the sum of power—
in narrow flesh,
the sum of light.
The bring to birth,
push out into air, a Man-child
needing, like any other,
milk and love—but who was God.
When the dim light, at Lauds, comes strike her window,
Bellsong falls out of Heaven with a sound of glass.
Prayers fly in the mind like larks,
Thoughts hide in the height like hawks:
And while the country churches tell their blessings to the distance,
Her slow words move
(Like summer winds the wheat) her innocent love:
Desires glitter in her mind
Like morning stars:
Until her name is suddenly spoken
Like a meteor falling.
She can no longer hear shrill day
Sing in the east,
Nor see the lovely woods begin to toss their manes.
The rivers have begun to sing.
The little clouds shine in the sky like little girls:
She has no eyes to see their faces.
Speech of an angel shines in the waters of her thought like diamonds,
Rides like a sunburst on the hillsides of her heart.
And is brought home like harvests,
Hid in her house, and stores
Like the sweet summer’s riches in our peaceful barns.
But in the world of March outside her dwelling,
The farmers and the planters
Fear to begin their sowing, and its lengthy labor,
Where, on the brown, bare furrows,
The winter wind still croons as dumb as pain.