St Catherines, Niton
Along the coast, a thick white fog,
Beneath a soft blue sky:
And o’er the white and misty cliffs
A silver moon rode high;
While radiant through the vap’rous haze
In a sheen of golden light
The rising sun rose calm and fair
Dissolving star-clad night.
We walked in silence
Thro’ the still, high woods,
With the smell of the sea and the pines:
And the soft wet earth and dripping trees
Glisten’d bright with the sparkling rime.
And suddenly thro’ the clearing mist,
We glimpsed the wrinkling sea,
And watched in muted wonder
As a gleaming gull soared free.
Pure and white against the blue,
It winged the ethereal heights;
A spirit of the viewless winds,
Like poetry in flight.
She breathless stood, with parted lips
And a soft warm breeze moved her hair,
And I saw in her lovely, spell-bound eyes
That a glory was shining there.
I remember still – does she? does she?
The tang of the wind in the pines,
And the sailing moon and misty cliffs,
And the sound of the whispering sea.
And shall I forget – shall I ever forget
As laughing we ran thro’ the Chine:
And how I became an immortal
When she rested her lips upon mine?
“A carpenter and an artist do not see the same tree” Proverb
Thus Mozart a slave to glorious sound;
And Einstein a slave to mysteries profound,
Shakespeare a slave to sonnet and play,
And Rodin a slave to commonplace clay.
Man craves to love – nay worship
Some wond’rous being rare,
To kneel before some altar
With heart and soul stripp’d bare.
But the wax must melt ere it giveth light,
So too must the Self abate;
For only when dying to all that he is
Does a man become one with his fate.
Our greatness lies not in lauding selfs “I”
But in losing ourselves in a far greater “Why?”
For the meanest work be it never so lowly,
Transfigured by love becomes pure and holy.
The latest instalment in the great Dingo Saga in which Dingo, Mousie and Sonnet discover to their great surprise and relief, that Ebenezer is not quite what he makes out to be!
Please go to: http://thurstanbassett.musicaneo.com/
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.
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”.
But though the years corroding hands
Harsh desecrations bring,
Cold winter’s blasts can ne’er deface
Your heart’s eternal Spring.
(Written as a gift to my wife on the occasion of our Golden Wedding Anniversary.)
© Thurstan Bassett