Robert Frost (1874–1963).  A Boy’s Will.  1915.

22. The Trial by Existence

EVEN the bravest that are slain
Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
Even as on earth, in paradise;
And where they sought without the sword	5
Wide fields of asphodel fore’er,
To find that the utmost reward
Of daring should be still to dare.
The light of heaven falls whole and white
And is not shattered into dyes,	10
The light for ever is morning light;
The hills are verdured pasture-wise;
The angel hosts with freshness go,
And seek with laughter what to brave;—
And binding all is the hushed snow	15
Of the far-distant breaking wave.
And from a cliff-top is proclaimed
The gathering of the souls for birth,
The trial by existence named,
The obscuration upon earth.	20
And the slant spirits trooping by
In streams and cross- and counter-streams
Can but give ear to that sweet cry
For its suggestion of what dreams!
And the more loitering are turned	25
To view once more the sacrifice
Of those who for some good discerned
Will gladly give up paradise.
And a white shimmering concourse rolls
Toward the throne to witness there	30
The speeding of devoted souls
Which God makes his especial care.
And none are taken but who will,
Having first heard the life read out
That opens earthward, good and ill,	35
Beyond the shadow of a doubt;
And very beautifully God limns,
And tenderly, life’s little dream,
But naught extenuates or dims,
Setting the thing that is supreme.	40
Nor is there wanting in the press
Some spirit to stand simply forth,
Heroic in its nakedness,
Against the uttermost of earth.
The tale of earth’s unhonored things	45
Sounds nobler there than ’neath the sun;
And the mind whirls and the heart sings,
And a shout greets the daring one.
But always God speaks at the end:
’One thought in agony of strife	50
The bravest would have by for friend,
The memory that he chose the life;
But the pure fate to which you go
Admits no memory of choice,
Or the woe were not earthly woe	55
To which you give the assenting voice.’
And so the choice must be again,
But the last choice is still the same;
And the awe passes wonder then,
And a hush falls for all acclaim.	60
And God has taken a flower of gold
And broken it, and used therefrom
The mystic link to bind and hold
Spirit to matter till death come.
‘Tis of the essence of life here,	65
Though we choose greatly, still to lack
The lasting memory at all clear,
That life has for us on the wrack
Nothing but what we somehow chose;
Thus are we wholly stripped of pride	70
In the pain that has but one close,
Bearing it crushed and mystified.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 1807–1882

65. The Day is Done

THE DAY is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village	5
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,	10
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,	15
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.	20
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,	25
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,	30
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction	35
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.	40
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

 All comes to Nothing.

I knew it all.

I had it all.

I lost it all,

Nothing is so quiet.

I wanted all,

Answered ever call.

Fought every battle,

Both in land and mare.

I wanted all,

The holy grail,

And the amber liqouer,

Never knew about the lily.

I wanted all,

Been to every castle.

The king was gone,

Yet the fish was there.

I wanted all,

On that lonely hill,

Met the fool, hanged down

Looking at the joker.

I wanted all,

Was happy with the sin within.

Yet was fooled by the promise of peace,

Dragged down to the feast.

I wanted all,

Built a thousand temples,

Lived in many towers,

Just to burn in  Ra’s chest.

I wanted all,

Stole the golden car,

To chase the light,

Just to hear the laughter.

Nothing comes from east.

Everything sinks in west.

So that a new day breaks.

And the glory never ends.

I wanted all,

Lost it all.

I knew it all.

Forgot it all.

WAITING LIKE A FISH

I was wandering like a fool,

Thinking got it all.

Then a careless strike for that shiny sword.

Another fisherman wandering so cool,

In desperate need, wanting it all.

Now like a fish caught by the hook,

Struggling to slip away,

Sinking deeper that way.

Fisherman knows how to catch,

Fish sees it from scratch.

Yet all is hidden and much more,

They have to give up, although sore,

So unknown,  far from the shore.

Now like a fish caught by the hook,

Struggling to slip away,

Sinking deeper that way.

One lives in the sea,

And the other on ground.

Is there a promised land?

Fish senses the end,

The fisherman has to stand down.

Now like a fish caught by the hook,

Struggling to slip away,

Sinking deeper that way.

Each doing the best they can,

Forgetting how it  all began,

This  has been the plan,

Sealed by a command.

Is there a promised land?

Now like a fish caught by the hook,

Struggling to slip away,

Sinking deeper that way.

07 March 2012

ENDLESS DANCE

Laying down on the rocks,

Longing for that quiet bliss,

Crying the tears of “I am done”.

Still  hearing the drums,

Beating the call for the dance.

Remembering all those promises,

Melting away  at the dawn.

Watching other  dancers,

Getting ready to fly away.

Aching in the dungeons,

Dreaming of a promised land.

One last dance, says the master of ceremony.

Drums gather around,

And rumble all the walls,

Once more the sanctuary is down.

Knowing there is no other chance,

Relentlessly joining the endless dance,

Surrendering  to the  night.

The owl shows all the trails,

Left by the  ancient dancers,

In search of  hidden treasures.
Now dancing the dark away,
Flying higher and higher,
Reaching for Ra's hand,
To burn by his fire,
To be harnessed by the light.

                                                       6 March 2012

                                                      (For all the dancers I have danced with)

ARE WE NOT THERE YET?

Watching the back of your head,

Kicking my little feet behind your seat.

Neither hush me, nor try to hold

I know, I am too much,

Mom already told.

Are we here, yet?

Sitting next to me,

There is a little monster.

You call her my sister.

She doesn’t like my games

She doesn’t hold peace.

Are we here, yet?

You tell me to look out and enjoy the ride

It is all too fast, too blurry

I can’t see and  make sense.

I have a thousand questions,

All  without answers.

Are we here yet?

Now you are at the end of patience.

I am sent to my dungeon once again.

Too many dragons awaiting,

So poof the magic I practice,

And wait for the never ending.

Are we here, yet?

I know, you will get me there and

All the promises that your love keeps.

I wish I could enjoy the journey,

Just like you told me.

Still dreaming that I have wings

Are we here, yet?

                                               06 March 2012

                                              (For my father, whose love still keeps me safe )