Herrick closed one volume of poetry (Hebrides) with another couplet, apologizing for his bawdier verses: “To his book’s end this line he’d have placed:/ Jocund his muse was, but his life was chaste.”
A Fine Picture—Some have found this the most mysterious painting by Cole. A lone figure in Renaissance dress rides through Adirondack scenery. Possibly, the painting had great significance for Cole, who was readying himself for his most ambitious project. A few months before he painted The Mountain Ford, Cole described himself as “one who, traveling through a desert, comes to a deep stream… and fears to venture in the rushing waters. But I am about to venture.” This “deep stream” was the zealous (but ultimately unrealized) dream of completing a five-part religious cycle called “The Cross and the World.” It was to contrast the life journeys of a Christian and of a worldly man.
A Little Poetry—”Eldorado” was one of Poe’s last poems. It was published on April 21, 1849, during the time of the California Gold Rush. Interestingly, Poe uses the word ‘shadow’ in each of the stanzas, and they each have a different meaning: absence of sunlight, despair, ghost, and death.
Man with the Cat (Henry Sturgis Drinker). Cecilia Beaux. 1898.
The Naming of Cats
T. S. Elliott, 1939
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey—
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter—
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,
A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how could he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellyorum—
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover—
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.
This popular poem opens a collection of poems introducing various feline personalities—including the mysterious Macavity and the fastidious Bustopher Jones. Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats would later be adapted by Andrew Lloyd-Webber as the long-running Broadway show Cats.
At the Edge of the Brook. William-Adolphe Bouguereau. 1875.
Maidenhood
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes,
In whose orb a shadow lies
Like the dusk in evening skies!
Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run!
Standing, with reluctant feet.,
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet!
Gazing with a timid glance,
On the brooklet’s swift advance,
On the river’s broad expanse!
Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem,
As the river of a dream.
Then why pause with indecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian?
Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye
Sees the falcon’s shadow fly?
Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more,
Deafened by the cataract’s roar?
O, thou child of many prayers!
Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares!
Care and age come unawares!
Like the swell of some sweet tune
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.
Childhood is the bough where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many numbered;—
Age, that bough with snows encumbered.
Gather then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.
Bear a lily in thy hand;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth
In the heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.
O, that dew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;
And that smile, like sunshine dart
Into many a sunless heart,
For a smile of God thou art.
Goethe said that everyone should read a little poetry and see a fine picture every day, to prevent worldly cares from overcoming our sense of the beautiful. Get your daily dose of beauty at Wrestle with the Angel.
