Tuesday, October 13, 2015
There stands a hostel by a traveled way;
Life is the road and Death the worthy host;
Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say,
"How have ye fared?" They answer him, the most,
"This lodging place is other than we sought;
We had intended farther, but the gloom
Came on apace, and found us ere we thought:
Yet will we lodge. Thou hast abundant room."
Within sit haggard men that speak no word,
No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed;
No voice of fellowship or strife is heard
But silence of a multitude of dead.
"Naught can I offer ye," quoth Death, "but rest!"And to his chamber leads each tired guest
Sunday, October 11, 2015
Now it is Mozart who comes back again
All garlanded in green.
Flue, harp, and trumpet, the sweet violin --
Each sound is seen.
Spring is a phrase, repeated green refrain,
Sound of new leaves springing.
I see the wind flowing like slanted rain,
I learn this loving fresh, in ancient style
(Lightly time flows),
And mine a green world for pure joy awhile.
Listen, a rose!
Leaves are glissando. A long haunting phrase
Ripples the air --
This harpsichord of light that the wind plays.
Mozart is there.
- May Sarton