Gerard Manley Hopkins Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can; Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be. But ah, but O thou terrible, […]
That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the
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… MacAuley’s excellent essay on “Patients who make ‘wrong’ choices” … ”Ironically, for all of palliative care’s talk of total suffering, we may be unwilling to accept that a patient’s emotional suffering over choosing a palliative course of treatment may be more severe than eventual projected physical suffering from an aggressive course … In the
dylan thomas … & the palliative care box … Read More »
… Gerard Manley Hopkins … The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo (Maiden’s song from St. Winefred’s Well) The Leaden Echo How to kéep—is there ány any, is there none such, nowhere known some, bow or brooch or braid or brace, láce, latch or catch or key to keep Back beauty, keep it, beauty, beauty,
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Binsey Poplars Gerard Manley Hopkins felled 1879 My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, are all felled; Of a fresh and following folded rank Not spared, not one That dandled a sandalled Shadow that swam or sank On meadow & river & wind-wandering weed-winding
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I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went! And more must, in yet longer light’s delay. With witness I speak this. But where I say Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
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To this hath Fate reduced The form, that, when with life it beamed, To us heaven’s liveliest image seemed. O Nature’s endless mystery! Jonathan Galassi has a new translation of Leopardi’s poems … he and others discussed at the New York Encounter. On the Portrait of a Beautiful Woman CARVED ON HER MONUMENT. Such _wast_
leopardi’s on the portrait of a beautiful woman … Read More »
No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief, More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring. Comforter, where, where is your comforting? Mary, mother of us, where is your relief? My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief Woe, wórld-sorrow; on an áge-old anvil wince and sing — Then lull, then
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… and Thou art calling me … So starts Newman’s meditation on death through the prayer of a dying man – The Dream of Gerontius – set to music in Elgar’s master choral work. a related prayer of Newman’s … ‘May He support us all the day long, till the shadows lengthen and the evening
I am near to death … Read More »
