A Few Lines from Frost

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
To bow and accept the end
Of a love or or a season?

 

*****

 

She always had to burn a light
Beside her attic bed at night.
It gave bad dreams and troubled sleep,
But helped the Lord her soul to keep.
Good gloom on her was thrown away.
It is on me by night or day,
Who have, as I foresee, ahead
The darkest of it still to dread.

One response

  1. A Poem For the End of the Century

    When everything was fine
    And the notion of sin had vanished
    And the earth was ready
    In universal peace
    To consume and rejoice
    Without creeds and utopias,

    I, for unknown reasons,
    Surrounded by the books
    Of prophets and theologians,
    Of philosophers, poets,
    Searched for an answer,
    Scowling, grimacing,
    Waking up at night, muttering at dawn.

    What oppressed me so much
    Was a bit shameful.
    Talking of it aloud
    Would show neither tact nor prudence.
    It might even seem an outrage
    Against the health of mankind.

    Alas, my memory
    Does not want to leave me
    And in it, live beings
    Each with its own pain,
    Each with its own dying,
    Its own trepidation.

    Why then innocence
    On paradisal beaches,
    An impeccable sky
    Over the church of hygiene?
    Is it because that
    Was long ago?

    To a saintly man
    –So goes an Arab tale–
    God said somewhat maliciously:
    “Had I revealed to people
    How great a sinner you are,
    They could not praise you.”

    “And I,” answered the pious one,
    “Had I unveiled to them
    How merciful you are,
    They would not care for you.”

    To whom should I turn
    With that affair so dark
    Of pain and also guilt
    In the structure of the world,
    If either here below
    Or over there on high
    No power can abolish
    The cause and the effect?

    Don’t think, don’t remember
    The death on the cross,
    Though everyday He dies,
    The only one, all-loving,
    Who without any need
    Consented and allowed
    To exist all that is,
    Including nails of torture.

    Totally enigmatic.
    Impossibly intricate.
    Better to stop speech here.
    This language is not for people.
    Blessed be jubilation.
    Vintages and harvests.
    Even if not everyone
    Is granted serenity.
    -Czeslaw Milosz

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