26-03-17

A. E. Housman, Bettina Galvagni, Hai Zi, Erica Jong, Artur Landsberger

 

De Engelse dichter Alfred Edward Housman werd geboren op 26 maart 1859 in Fockbury, Worcestershire. Zie ook alle tags voor A. E. Housman op dit blog.

 

To An Athlete Dying Young

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.

 

 

Here Dead We Lie

Here dead we lie
Because we did not choose
To live and shame the land
From which we sprung.

Life, to be sure,
Is nothing much to lose,
But young men think it is,
And we were young.

 

 
A. E. Housman (26 maart 1859 – 30 april 1936)
Standbeeld in Bromsgrove

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26-03-16

A. E. Housman, Bettina Galvagni, Hai Zi, Erica Jong, Artur Landsberger

 

De Engelse dichter Alfred Edward Housman werd geboren op 26 maart 1859 in Fockbury, Worcestershire. Zie ook alle tags voor A. E. Housman op dit blog.

 

The Carpenter's Son

"Here the hangman stops his cart:
Now the best of friends must part.
Fare you well, for ill fare I:
Live, lads, and I will die.

"Oh, at home had I but stayed
'Prenticed to my father's trade,
Had I stuck to plane and adze,
I had not been lost, my lads.

"Then I might have built perhaps
Gallows-trees for other chaps,
Never dangled on my own,
Had I left but ill alone.

"Now, you see, they hang me high,
And the people passing by
Stop to shake their fists and curse;
So 'tis come from ill to worse.

"Here hang I, and right and left
Two poor fellows hang for theft:
All the same's the luck we prove,
Though the midmost hangs for love.

"Comrades all, that stand and gaze,
Walk henceforth in other ways;
See my neck and save your own:
Comrades all, leave ill alone.

"Make some day a decent end,
Shrewder fellows than your friend.
Fare you well, for ill fare I:
Live lads, and I will die."

 

 
A. E. Housman (26 maart 1859 – 30 april 1936)

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01-08-15

Dolce far niente, William Shakespeare, A. E. Housman, Friedrich Schiller, Gerrit Krol

 

Dolce far niente – Canal Parade

 

 
Gay Pride 2015, Amsterdam

 

 

Sonnet 104 - To me, fair friend, you never can be old

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd,
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd:
For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

 

 
William Shakespeare (23 april 1564 – 23 april 1616)
Joseph Fiennes als de jonge Shakespeare in de film Shakespeare in Love, 1998

 

 

You smile upon your friend to-day

You smile upon your friend to-day,
To-day his ills are over;
You hearken to the lover's say,
And happy is the lover.

'Tis late to hearken, late to smile,
But better late than never;
I shall have lived a little while
Before I die for ever.

 

 
A. E. Housman (26 maart 1859 – 30 april 1936)

 

 

Die Freundschaft

Freund! genügsam ist der Wesenlenker -
Schämen sich kleinmeisterische Denker,
    Die so ängstlich nach Gesetzen spähn -
Geisterreich und Körperweltgewühle
Wälzet eines Rades Schwung zum Ziele;
    Hier sah es mein Newton gehn.

Sphären lehrt es, Sklaven eines Zaumes,
Um das Herz des grossen Weltenraumes
    Labyrinthenbahnen ziehn -
Geister in umarmenden Systemen
Nach der grossen Geistersonne strömen,
    Wie zum Meere Bäche fliehn.

War's nicht dies allmächtige Getriebe,
Das zum ew'gen Jubelbund der Liebe
    Unsre Herzen an einander zwang?
Raphael, an deinem Arm - o Wonne!
Wag' auch ich zur grossen Geistersonne
    Freudigmuthig den Vollendungsgang.

Glücklich! glücklich! dich hab' ich gefunden,
Hab' aus Millionen dich umwunden,
    Und aus Millionen mein bist du -
Lass das Chaos diese Welt umrütteln,
Durcheinander die Atomen schütteln;
    Ewig fliehn sich unsre Herzen zu.

Muss ich nicht aus deinen Flammenaugen
Meiner Wollust Wiederstrahlen saugen?
    Nur in dir bestaun' ich mich -
Schöner malt sich mir die schöne Erde,
Heller spiegelt in des Freunds Geberde
    Reizender der Himmel sich.

Schwermuth wirft die bangen Thränenlasten,
Süsser von des Leidens Sturm zu rasten,
    In der Liebe Busen ab;
Sucht nicht selbst das folternde Entzücken
In des Freunds beredten Strahlenblicken
    Ungeduldig ein wollüst' ges Grab?

Stünd' im All der Schöpfung ich alleine,
Seelen träumt' ich in die Felsensteine,
    Und umarmend küsst' ich sie -
Meine Klagen stöhnt' ich in die Lüfte,
Freute mich, antworteten die Klüfte,
    Thor genug! der süssen Sympathie.

Todte Gruppen sind wir - wenn wir hassen,
Götter - wenn wir liebend uns umfassen!
    Lechzen nach dem süssen Fesselzwang -
Aufwärts durch die tausendfachen Stufen
Zahlenloser Geister, die nicht schufen,
    Waltet göttlich dieser Drang.

Arm in Arme, höher stets und höher,
Vom Mongolen bis zum griech'schen Seher,
    Der sich an den letzten Seraph reiht,
Wallen wir, einmüth'gen Ringeltanzes,
Bis sich dort im Meer des ew'gen Glanzes
    Sterbend untertauchen Mass und Zeit. –

Freundlos war der grosse Weltenmeister,
Fühlte Mangel - darum schuf er Geister,
    Sel'ge Spiegel seiner Seligkeit!
Fand das höchste Wesen schon kein gleiches,
Aus dem Kelch des ganzen Seelenreiches
    Schäumt ihm - die Unendlichkeit.

 

 
Friedrich Schiller (10 november 1759 - 9 mei 1805)
Borstbeeld in Rudolstadt

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26-03-12

Robert Frost, Erica Jong, Patrick Süskind, A. E. Housman, Artur Landsberger

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Robert Lee Frost werd geboren op 26 maart 1874 in San Francisco. Zie ook alle tags voor Robert Frost op dit blog.

 

A Brook In The City

 

The farmhouse lingers, though averse to square
With the new city street it has to wear
A number in. But what about the brook
That held the house as in an elbow-crook?
I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength
And impulse, having dipped a finger length
And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed
A flower to try its currents where they crossed.
The meadow grass could be cemented down
From growing under pavements of a town;
The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.
Is water wood to serve a brook the same?
How else dispose of an immortal force
No longer needed? Staunch it at its source
With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown
Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone
In fetid darkness still to live and run --
And all for nothing it had ever done
Except forget to go in fear perhaps.
No one would know except for ancient maps
That such a brook ran water. But I wonder
If from its being kept forever under,
The thoughts may not have risen that so keep
This new-built city from both work and sleep.

 

 

 


Robert Frost (26 maart 1874 – 29 januari 1963)

Portret door John McCormick

 

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26-03-11

Robert Frost, Erica Jong, Patrick Süskind, A. E. Housman, Artur Landsberger

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Robert Lee Frost werd geboren op 26 maart 1874 in San Francisco. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2010.

 

 

A Prayer in Spring

 

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;

And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here

All simply in the springing of the year.

 

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,

Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;

And make us happy in the happy bees,

The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

 

And make us happy in the darting bird

That suddenly above the bees is heard,

The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,

And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

 

For this is love and nothing else is love,

To which it is reserved for God above

To sanctify to what far ends he will,

But which it only needs that we fulfill.

 

 

 

 

Putting in the seed

 

You come to fetch me from my work to-night
When supper's on the table, and we'll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree
(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea);
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a Springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for that early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.

 

 

 

 

Robert Frost  (26 maart 1874 – 29 januari 1963)

Hier met zijn zoon Carol in 1916 of 1917

 

 

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