Maxims of Goethe 93

When you lose interest in anything, you also lose the memory for it. 

IMAGE: Elihu Vedder, Memory (1870) 

James Vila Blake, Sonnets from Marcus Aurelius 31

31. 

ἢ τὸ μὲν τοῦ λύχνου φῶς, μέχρι σβεσθῇ, φαίνει καὶ τὴν αὐγὴν οὐκ ἀποβάλλει: ἡ δὲ ἐν σοὶ ἀλήθεια καὶ δικαιοσύνη καὶ σωφροσύνη προαποσβήσεται; 

A lighted lamp continues its glow and remits not its radiance until the flame is quenched; and shall the blaze of truth that is in you, and the light of justice and the beam of temperance be extinguished, while you yet exist here.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 12.15 

31. 

The night is long, the candle burneth low, 

Yet giveth me its faithfulness of light 

As when ’twas new and tall; ’tis constant so, 

And constant still will be, a golden sight.

Its upright pencil and unlessened shine 

Have been so from its first enkindled beam, 

And so will be until its stock decline 

And all its flesh dissolve as in a dream 

'Twere shame indeed if so the candle shame thee; 

For what, my soul! shall beamy powers that store thee 

With honor, soberness and peace, defame thee 

By smoky ire and going out before thee? 

Our ruling part divine, it is most sure, 

Should rule the while the ruled parts endure. 

* * * * * 

EPODE 

In sum: Doth thy soul lapse in poorer mine, 

Or am I quenched in thee?—that is the query. 

How can I answer, or in what design 

Marshal my hours now ultimate and weary? 

For should I crave thy glory’s rich estate, 

Then were thy better bounties for me crossed; 

Yet if before thy soul my soul abate, 

My freedom is engrossed in thee and lost. 

But we together, and both i' the sun, can walk, 

Commune of friend and foe, of sky and earth, 

Of trees, rains, rivers, birds, with starry talk; 

Yet in my way I have the dearer mirth: 

I hallow can, and chant, thy lofty light, 

As thou canst not my dimmer lowly plight.

IMAGE: Jan Moraczynski, Vanitas (1851) 

Happy the Man

"Happy the Man" 

John Dryden (1631-1700) 

from Horace 

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
Be fair or foul or rain or shine
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour. 

IMAGE: William Blake, John Dryden (c. 1800) 

Maxims of Goethe 92

For the man of the world a collection of anecdotes and maxims is of the greatest value, if he knows how to intersperse the one in his conversation at fitting moments, and remember the other when a case arises for their application. 

Songs of Innocence 14

Night (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

The sun descending in the west, 
The evening star does shine; 
The birds are silent in their nest, 
And I must seek for mine. 

The moon, like a flower, 
In heaven's high bower, 
With silent delight 

Sits and smiles on the night. 

Farewell, green fields and happy groves, 
Where flocks have took delight. 
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves 
The feet of angels bright; 
Unseen they pour blessing, 
And joy without ceasing, 
On each bud and blossom, 
And each sleeping bosom. 

They look in every thoughtless nest, 
Where birds are covered warm; 
They visit caves of every beast, 
To keep them all from harm. 
If they see any weeping 
That should have been sleeping, 
They pour sleep on their head, 
And sit down by their bed. 

When wolves and tigers howl for prey, 
They pitying stand and weep; 
Seeking to drive their thirst away, 
And keep them from the sheep. 
But if they rush dreadful, 
The angels, most heedful, 
Receive each mild spirit, 
New worlds to inherit. 

And there the lion's ruddy eyes 
Shall flow with tears of gold, 
And pitying the tender cries, 
And walking round the fold, 
Saying, "Wrath, by His meekness, 
And, by His health, sickness 
Is driven away 
From our immortal day. 

"And now beside thee, bleating lamb, 
I can lie down and sleep; 
Or think on Him who bore thy name, 
Graze after thee and weep. 
For, washed in life's river, 
My bright mane for ever 
Shall shine like the gold 
As I guard o'er the fold." 

Maxims of Goethe 91

It is very rare to find pure and steady activity in the accomplishment of what is good and right. We usually see pedantry trying to keep back, and audacity trying to go on too fast. 

IMAGE: Arthur Rackham, The Hare and the Tortoise (1912) 

James Vila Blake, Sonnets from Marcus Aurelius 30

30. 

Ἡλίκην ἐξουσίαν ἔχει ἄνθρωπος μὴ ποιεῖν ἄλλο ἢ ὅπερ μέλλει ὁ θεὸς ἐπαινεῖν, καὶ δέχεσθαι πᾶν ὃν νέμῃ αὐτῷ ὁ θεός.

What a great power any man has not to do anything else than what God shall approve, and to receive contentedly whatsoever God sets apart for him. 

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 12.11 

30. 

To what endowment rich and eminent 

A man is born, what heraldic renown, 

And what estate, what wealthy brave descent, 

And in all measures what a meed and crown! 

What can compel or mould him from his course 

And place august, what power prevail to move 

His stationed foot, what strength against all force 

He hath to do but what God will approve! 

And it behoves me to remember well 

I lead not, but am led; wherefore for me 

To be a good led-man ’s my citadel, 

Obedient mind my joy and dignity. 

How blest our case, ne’er to be forced to wrong, 

With free feet marching, in our mouth a song! 

IMAGE: Luca Cambiaso, Benediction of God the Father (c. 1565) 

Maxims of Goethe 90

We are all so limited that we always think we are right; and so we may conceive of an extraordinary mind which not only errs but has a positive delight in error. 

Songs of Innocence 13

Holy Thursday (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean
The children walking two & two in red & blue & green
Grey-headed beadles walkd before, with wands as white as snow
Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow

O what a multitude they seemd these flowers of London town
Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own
The hum of multitudes was there but multitudes of lambs
Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among
Beneath them sit the aged men wise guardians of the poor
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door 

Maxims of Goethe 89

Ingratitude is always a kind of weakness. I have never known men of ability to be ungrateful. 

IMAGE: Henry Ossawa Tanner, The Thankful Poor (1894) 

Maxims of Goethe 88

I can promise to be sincere, but not to be impartial. 

James Vila Blake, Sonnets from Marcus Aurelius 29

29. 

Οἱ Πυθαγόρειοι: ἕωθεν εἰς τὸν οὐρανὸν ἀφορᾶν, ἵν̓ ὑπομιμνῃσκώμεθα τῶν ἀεὶ κατὰ τὰ αὐτὰ καὶ ὡσαύτως τὸ ἑαυτῶν ἔργον διανυόντων καὶ τῆς τάξεως καὶ τῆς καθαρότητος καὶ τῆς γυμνότητος: οὐδὲν γὰρ προκάλυμμα ἄστρου. 

The Pythagoreans bid us look up into the sky in the morning, that we may keep ourselves mindful of those hosts that always are accomplishing their work by the same course and in the same way; and that so we may know their orderly ranks and their purity and their natural openness—for no star wears a veil.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 11.27 

29. 

Pythagoras’ disciples have a creed 

Of morning’s bounden duty unto joy. 

Look up, they say, and to the expanse give heed, 

And let three lustrous thoughts thy soul employ: 

Acclaim the order and the constancy 

Of heavenly beamy bodies, each in place. 

Laud the purgation and equality 

Of matter in those fulgencies of space. 

Relish the artlessness of all those lights, 

That open to our eyes and cry us hail, 

And naught have to conceal, no hidden plights, 

But unreserved; for no star wears a veil. 

If with this homage the daily dawn we meet, 

Our path is plain, and sparkles to our feet. 

IMAGE: Fyodor Bronnikov, Pythagoreans Celebrate the Sunrise (1869) 

The Darkling Thursh

"The Darkling Thrush" 

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) 

I leant upon a coppice gate

      When Frost was spectre-grey,

And Winter's dregs made desolate

      The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

      Like strings of broken lyres,

And all mankind that haunted nigh

      Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be

      The Century's corpse outleant,

His crypt the cloudy canopy,

      The wind his death-lament.

The ancient pulse of germ and birth

      Was shrunken hard and dry,

And every spirit upon earth

      Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among

      The bleak twigs overhead

In a full-hearted evensong

      Of joy illimited;

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

      In blast-beruffled plume,

Had chosen thus to fling his soul

      Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings

      Of such ecstatic sound

Was written on terrestrial things

      Afar or nigh around,

That I could think there trembled through

      His happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew

      And I was unaware. 

Mutability

"Mutability" 

William Wordsworth (1770-1850) 

From low to high doth dissolution climb,

And sink from high to low, along a scale

Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;

A musical but melancholy chime,

Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,

Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.

Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear

The longest date do melt like frosty rime,

That in the morning whitened hill and plain

And is no more; drop like the tower sublime

Of yesterday, which royally did wear

His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain

Some casual shout that broke the silent air,

Or the unimaginable touch of Time. 

IMAGE: Johann Heinrich Schönfeld, Allegory of Time (c. 1640) 

Hymn to the Night

"Hymn to the Night" 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) 

Aspasie, trillistos. 

I heard the trailing garments of the Night 

      Sweep through her marble halls! 

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 

      From the celestial walls! 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 

      Stoop o'er me from above; 

The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

      As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

      The manifold, soft chimes, 

That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

      Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

      My spirit drank repose; 

The fountain of perpetual peace flows there— 

      From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear 

      What man has borne before! 

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

      And they complain no more. 

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! 

      Descend with broad-winged flight, 

The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, 

      The best-beloved Night! 

IMAGE: Jean-Francois Millet, Starry Night (1865)