Sonnet became all sadly-thoughtful after I read the piece about the flower to him (see yesterday’s post) and not to be outdone by Wordsworth decided to write his own little poem about it.
He has asked me to put it on the blog because he doesn’t know how to (little does he know that I’m not too sure either! But let’s give it a “go” and see what happens!).
THE MAGIC OF THE MOMENT
It flowered but a moment,
But in that time it cast
Its fragile beauty
On the passing hours
And sang with silent joy:
A joy made yet more perfect still
Because it could not last.
I threw it away this morning:
An ugly, withered stalk:
Now all that wond’rous beauty
But a miracle of thought.
The dancing hours did give thee birth,
The wind and sun their song:
Look, laughing, come the boys and girls:
Be quick – they’ll soon be gone.
Symbolic of everything in life.
Why does the first image fill us with happiness and wonder while the second merely disgusts? And what is there in the human psyche
that says: “This one is beautiful – the other is abhorrent”?
Logically, the two stages are part of the same great natural process which should enable us to look on them with equal pleasure and understanding – or is such god-like detachment impossible for most us?
Truly “the heart has its reasons that the head knows not of”!
As Wordsworth finely expressed it:
“To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears”.
What beauty is I’ve never known,
For if you snare it, lo – its flown.
But comes a moment, unaware
She softly whispers: “I am here”.
“Here in the wind and in the sky,
In deep-mossed earth and storm-clouds high,
Here in the trees and the caring face,
And the stars that glitter in the vasts of space.
“In snow and fog and clear-burning fires,
In halls and fountains and sun-gilt spires,
In music and paintings and old vellum’d books,
And rainbows and windmills and elm-haunting rooks.
“In every leaf and in every tear,
If you lovingly seek you will find me there,
Just look with eyes that truly see
And thou in Elysium with me shalt be”.
When man first looks
With fresh-born eyes
On this most lovely world.
‘Tis clad in glistening, radiant hours,
With wonders rich en-pearl’d,
Full of strange delights
And magic, fairy doors
Which, softly opening to the touch,
First sips enchant:
And soaring high on Fancy’s wings
Youth climbs to regions far,
Where Beauty sits in majesty
Cathedral’d in the stars.
But soon, full soon,
A palsied hand
Falls coldly on the heart;
The pageant dims, the glory fades,
The Gods in stealth depart.
As the hour-glass turns,
The trickling sands descend,
And all our dreams of yester-years
Time’s storms to tatters rend.
But that which was
Can be again:
No joy is lost for aye:
Tho’ shorn of leaves and bare of bough,
The tree still climbs the sky,
And thro’ the long and frosty nights
Sees Spring in Winter’s eye.
And just as Spring
Transmutes the woods
And frozen village ways,
So love, with warm and thrilling touch,
With alchemy divine,
Breathes softly o’er the deadened heart
And turns the dregs to wine.
(poem and drawing by Thurstan Bassett)