A Coot Afloot on a Root (or a Moorhen standing on a branch)

Caesar & The Sphinx

Hail, Sphinx: salutation from Julius Caesar!

I have wandered in many lands seeking the lost regions from which my birth into this world exiled me, & the company of creatures such as I myself. I have found flocks & pastures, men & cities, but no other Caesar, no air native to me, no man kindred to me, none who can do my day’s deed, & think my night’s thought.

In the little world yonder, Sphinx, my place is as high as yours in this great desert; only I wander, & you sit still; I conquer & you endure; I work & wonder, you watch & wait; I look up & am dazzled, look down & am darkened, look round & am puzzled, whilst your eyes never turn from looking out – out of the world – to the lost region – the home from which we have strayed.

Sphinx, you & I, strangers to the race of men, are no strangers to one another: have I not been conscious of you & of this place since I was born?

Rome is a madman’s dream: this is my Reality. These starry lamps of yours I have seen from afar in Gaul, in Britain, in Spain, in Thessaly, signalling great secrets to some eternal sentinel below, whose post I never could find. And here at last is their sentinel – an image of the constant & immortal part of my life, silent, full of thoughts, alone in the silver desert.

Sphinx, Sphinx: I have climbed mountains at night to hear in the distance the stealthy footfall of the winds that chase your sands in forbidden play – our invisible children, O Sphinx, laughing in whispers.

My way hither was the way of destiny; for I am he of whose genius you are the symbol: part brute, part woman, & part god – nothing of man in me at all. Have I read yor riddle, Sphinx?

from Caesar & Cleopatra, 1898, George Bernard Shaw.

Here Comes the Sun

In Memoriam

For a Dead Lady

No more with overflowing light

Shall fill the eyes that now are faded,
Nor shall another’s fringe with night
Their woman-hidden world as they did.
No more shall quiver down the days
The flowing wonder of her ways,
Whereof no language may requite
The shifting & the many-shaded.

The grace, divine, definitive,

Clings only as a faint forestalling;
The laugh that love could not forgive
Is hushed, & answers to no calling;
The forehead & the little ears
Have gone where Saturn keeps the years;
The breast where roses could not live
Has done with rising & with falling.

The beauty, shattered by the laws
That have creation in their keeping,
No longer trembles at applause,
Or over children that are sleeping;
And we who delve in beauty’s lore
Know all that we have known before
Of what inexorable cause
Makes Time so vicious in his reaping.

Edwin Arlington Robinson

(1869-1935)

Spring on a Grey Sunday Morning