But we, peacefully joined, like the loving swans,
When they rest on the lake, or, rocked by waves
Look down into the water, where silver clouds mirror themselves,
And ethereal blue undulates under the travellers in ships,
So on earth we wandered. And even if the North threatened
He, the enemy of lovers, tendering laments, and fell
From the branches the leaves, and flew in the wind the rain
Quietly we smiled, were aware of our god
In our trusting conversation; in one soul-song
Completely at peace with ourselves, childish and joyfully alone.
But the house is laid waste for me now, and they have taken my eye
From me, also myself I have lost with her.
Thus I wander about, and perhaps like the Shades, so must I
Live, and senseless, long has seemed, the rest to me.
This was written in 1800, two years after they were forced to part.
It ranks as a classic now, in the same company as ONLY FOOLS AND HORSES, for the two of us. Excellent in every way. Thanks for such fun and enjoyment during a surreal winter. Thank you Canada.
"Mercifully, Dan Levy and his writing team are good-hearted souls whose scathing wit and insight are tempered by a humane belief in transformation and even transcendence. (They are Canadian after all.) “Schitt’s Creek” is a morality play" - writes Mary McNamara. And, in our opinion that is the added bonus to the laughter and humour.GREAT ACTING AND GREAT CAST CHEMISTRY. LIKE OFAH, TRUE CAST ALCHEMY.
Psalm – Georg Trakl - excerptsfromThere is a light, which the wind has extinguished.
There is a tavern on the heath, which a drunk abandons
in the afternoon.
There is a vineyard, black and burnt with holes full of spiders.
There is a room, which they have whitewashed with milk.
The madman has perished.
There is an Island of the South Sea, to receive the sun god.
Drums are beaten. The men lead warlike dances.
The women hip-sway in creepers and fire-flowers,
When the sea sings. O our lost paradise.
The nymphs have left the golden forests.
The stranger is buried. Then a shimmering rain arises.
The son of Pan appears as an earth-worker …
The square before the church is dark and silent,
as in the days of childhood …
And the shadows of the damned decline towards sighing waters.
In the grave the white magician plays with his snakes.
Silently above the place of skulls God’s golden eyes are opening.
Thought, I love thought.
But not the juggling and twisting of already existent ideas
I despise that self-important game.
Thought is the welling up of unknown life into consciousness,
Thought is the testing of statements on the touchstone of consciousness,
Thought is gazing onto the face of life, and reading what can be read,
Thought is pondering over experience, and coming to conclusion.
Thought is not a trick, or an exercise, or a set of dodges,
Thought is a man in his wholeness, wholly attending.
Cilgwyn, ger Carmel (Caernarfon)Llun gan Richard Jones(Photographer)
I'd buy it if I could and do it up ...
Oh, not to be separated,
shut off from the starry dimensions
by so thin a wall.What is within us
if not intensified sky
traversed with birdsand deep
with winds of homecoming? (Rilke)
An invalid now ...
A prisoner now,
One who drew the hardest lot:
In your own shaft
Laboring bent over,
Excavating yourself,
Digging into yourself,
Without aid,
Stiff,
A corpse —
Overpiled by a hundred burdens,
By your overburdens,
One in the know!
A self-knower!
The wise Zarathustra! ... (from Nietzsche's 'Amid Birds of Prey).
The Fugitive Stag 