HAPPY NEW YEAR 2011 Everybody!

May ye aye keep hail an hertie!

May you go forth under the strength of heaven, under the light of sun, under the radiance of moon;
May you go forth with the splendor of fire, with the speed of lightning, with the swiftness of wind;
May you go forth supported by the depth of sea, by the stability of earth, by the firmness of rock;
May you be surrounded and encircled, with the protection of the nine elements.


To 2011
This bright new year is given me
To live each day with zest
To daily grow and try to be
My highest and my best!

Auld lang syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And days of auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
We'll tak' ae cup o'kindness yet
For auld lang syne

We twa hae rin aboot the braes
And pud the gowans fine
But we've wander'd mony a weary step
Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl'd in the burn
Frae morning sun till dine
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp
And surely I'll be mine
And we'll tak ae cup o'kindness yet
For auld lang syne.

And there's a haund, my trusty fiere
And gie's a haund o' thine
And we'll tak' ae richt guid wullie- waught
For auld lang syne.

........................................................

In Memoriam der Sterne und Sternschnuppen 2010:
Maxim G., Patrick R., Thorsten K. (Gum biodh ràth le do thurus)
Gum fosglach dorus na bliadhna ùire chum sìth, sonas is sàmchair!

To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell—
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

Robert Burns (1785)

Some, too fragile for winter winds

Some, too fragile for winter winds
The thoughtful grave encloses --
Tenderly tucking them in from frost
Before their feet are cold.

Never the treasures in her nest
The cautious grave exposes,
Building where schoolboy dare not look,
And sportsman is not bold.

This covert have all the children
Early aged, and often cold,
Sparrow, unnoticed by the Father --
Lambs for whom time had not a fold.

Emily Dickinson

Winter Stores

We take from life one little share,
And say that this shall be
A space, redeemed from toil and care,
From tears and sadness free.

And, haply, Death unstrings his bow,
And Sorrow stands apart,
And, for a little while, we know
The sunshine of the heart.

Existence seems a summer eve,
Warm, soft, and full of peace,
Our free, unfettered feelings give
The soul its full release.

A moment, then, it takes the power
To call up thoughts that throw
Around that charmed and hallowed hour,
This life’s divinest glow.

But Time, though viewlessly it flies,
And slowly, will not stay;
Alike, through clear and clouded skies,
It cleaves its silent way.

Alike the bitter cup of grief,
Alike the draught of bliss,
Its progress leaves but moment brief
For baffled lips to kiss

The sparkling draught is dried away,
The hour of rest is gone,
And urgent voices, round us, say,
“'Ho, lingerer, hasten on!”

And has the soul, then, only gained,
From this brief time of ease,
A moment’s rest, when overstrained,
One hurried glimpse of peace?

No; while the sun shone kindly o’er us,
And flowers bloomed round our feet,—
While many a bud of joy before us
Unclosed its petals sweet,—

An unseen work within was plying;
Like honey-seeking bee,
From flower to flower, unwearied, flying,
Laboured one faculty,—

Thoughtful for Winter’s future sorrow,
Its gloom and scarcity;
Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,
Toiled quiet Memory.

’Tis she that from each transient pleasure
Extracts a lasting good;
’Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure
To serve for winter’s food.

And when Youth’s summer day is vanished,
And Age brings Winter’s stress,
Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished,
Life’s evening hours will bless.

Charlotte Brontë

In Winter in my Room

In Winter in my Room
I came upon a Worm --
Pink, lank and warm --
But as he was a worm
And worms presume
Not quite with him at home --
Secured him by a string
To something neighboring
And went along.

A Trifle afterward
A thing occurred
I'd not believe it if I heard
But state with creeping blood --
A snake with mottles rare
Surveyed my chamber floor
In feature as the worm before
But ringed with power --

The very string with which
I tied him -- too
When he was mean and new
That string was there --

I shrank -- "How fair you are"!
Propitiation's claw --
"Afraid," he hissed
"Of me"?
"No cordiality" --
He fathomed me --
Then to a Rhythm Slim
Secreted in his Form
As Patterns swim
Projected him.

That time I flew
Both eyes his way
Lest he pursue
Nor ever ceased to run
Till in a distant Town
Towns on from mine
I set me down
This was a dream.

Emily Dickinson

Winter Dream

Oh wind-swept towers,
Oh endlessly blossoming trees,
White clouds and lucid eyes,
And pools in the rocks whose unplumbed blue is pregnant
With who knows what of subtlety
And magical curves and limbs--
White Anadyomene and her shallow breasts
Mother-of-pearled with light.

And oh the April, April of straight soft hair,
Falling smooth as the mountain water and brown;
The April of little leaves unblinded,
Of rosy nipples and innocence
And the blue languor of weary eyelids.

Across a huge gulf I fling my voice
And my desires together:
Across a huge gulf ... on the other bank
Crouches April with her hair as smooth and straight and brown
As falling waters.
Oh brave curve upwards and outwards.
Oh despair of the downward tilting--
Despair still beautiful
As a great star one has watched all night
Wheeling down under the hills.
Silence widens and darkens;
Voice and desires have dropped out of sight.
I am all alone, dreaming she would come and kiss me.

Aldous Huxley

Winter

The rain of Zeus descends, and from high heaven
A storm is driven;
And on the running water-brooks the cold
Lays icy hold:
Then up! beat down the winter; make the fire
Blaze high and higher;
Mix wine as sweet as honey of the bee
Abundantly;
Then drink with comfortable wool around
Your temples bound.
We must not yield our hearts to woe, or wear
With wasting care;
For grief will profit us no whit, my friend,
Nor nothing mend;
But this is our best medicine, with wine fraught
To cast out thought.

Alcaeus (7th-6th century B.C.)

The True Christmas

So stick up ivy and the bays,
And then restore the heathen ways.
Green will remind you of the spring,
Though this great day denies the thing.
And mortifies the earth and all
But your wild revels, and loose hall.
Could you wear flowers, and roses strow
Blushing upon your breasts’ warm snow,
That very dress your lightness will
Rebuke, and wither at the ill.
The brightness of this day we owe
Not unto music, masque, nor show:
Nor gallant furniture, nor plate;
But to the manger’s mean estate.
His life while here, as well as birth,
Was but a check to pomp and mirth;
And all man’s greatness you may see
Condemned by His humility.
Then leave your open house and noise,
To welcome Him with holy joys,
And the poor shepherd’s watchfulness:
Whom light and hymns from heaven did bless.
What you abound with, cast abroad
To those that want, and ease your load.
Who empties thus, will bring more in;
But riot is both loss and sin.
Dress finely what comes not in sight,
And then you keep your Christmas right.

Henry Vaughan (1678)

Christmas

The cottage hearth beams warm and bright,
The candles gaily glow;
The stars emit a kinder light
Above the drifted snow.

Down from the sky a magic steals
To glad the passing year,
And belfries sing with joyous peals,
For Christmastide is here!

H. P. Lovecraft

Fairytale Of New York

It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you

Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true

They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me

You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day

You're a bum
You're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last

I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you

Shane MacGowan & Jem Finer

The Snow-Storm

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.


Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Song of Poplars

Shepherd, to yon tall poplars tune your flute:
Let them pierce keenly, subtly shrill,
The slow blue rumour of the hill;
Let the grass cry with an anguish of evening gold,
And the great sky be mute.

Then hearken how the poplar trees unfold
Their buds, yet close and gummed and blind,
In airy leafage of the mind,
Rustling in silvery whispers the twin-hued scales
That fade not nor grow old.

"Poplars and fountains and you cypress spires
Springing in dark and rusty flame,
Seek you aught that hath a name?
Or say, say: Are you all an upward agony
Of undefined desires?

"Say, are you happy in the golden march
Of sunlight all across the day?
Or do you watch the uncertain way
That leads the withering moon on cloudy stairs
Over the heaven's wide arch?

"Is it towards sorrow or towards joy you lift
The sharpness of your trembling spears?
Or do you seek, through the grey tears
That blur the sky, in the heart of the triumphing blue,
A deeper, calmer rift?"

So; I have tuned my music to the trees,
And there were voices, dim below
Their shrillness, voices swelling slow
In the blue murmur of hills, and a golden cry
And then vast silences.

Aldous Huxley

A Winter's Tale

Yesterday the fields were only grey with scattered snow,
And now the longest grass-leaves hardly emerge;
Yet her deep footsteps mark the snow, and go
On towards the pines at the hills' white verge.

I cannot see her, since the mist's white scarf
Obscures the dark wood and the dull orange sky;
But she's waiting, I know, impatient and cold, half
Sobs struggling into her frosty sigh.

Why does she come so promptly, when she must know
That she's only the nearer to the inevitable farewell;
The hill is steep, on the snow my steps are slow—
Why does she come, when she knows what I have to tell?

David Herbert Lawrence

Darkness

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came, and went and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires - and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings, the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forest were set on fire but hour by hour
They fell and faded and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd,
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremolous; and vipers crawl'd
And twined themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless, they were slain for food:
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again; a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought and that was death,
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devoured,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corpse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answered not with a caress, he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies;
They met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they raked up,
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath


Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Wich was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and
Each other's aspects. saw, and shriek'd, and died, beheld
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless,
A lump of death, a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean stood still,
And nothing stirred within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon their mistress had expired before;
The winds were withered in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them. She was the universe.



Lord Byron

To Winter

O winter! bar thine adamantine doors:
The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark
Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs
Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.

He hears me not, but o’er the yawning deep
Rides heavy; his storms are unchain’d, sheathed
In ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes;
For he hath rear’d his sceptre o’er the world.

Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings
To his strong bones, strides o’er the groaning rocks:
He withers all in silence, and in his hand
Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.

He takes his seat upon the cliffs, the mariner
Cries in vain. Poor little wretch! that deal’st
With storms, till heaven smiles, and the monster
Is driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla.

William Blake (1783)

Ode To A Nightingale

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,--
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?

John Keats

Christmas Trees

(A Christmas Circular Letter)

The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said,
“There aren’t enough to be worth while.”
“I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over.”

“You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north. He said, “A thousand.”

“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”

He felt some need of softening that to me:
“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”

Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

Robert Frost (1920)

Looking For a Sunset Bird in Winter

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.


The west was getting out of gold,
The breath of air had died of cold,
When shoeing home across the white,
I thought I saw a bird alight.

In summer when I passed the place
I had to stop and lift my face;
A bird with an angelic gift
Was singing in it sweet and swift.

No bird was singing in it now.
A single leaf was on a bough,
And that was all there was to see
In going twice around the tree.

From my advantage on a hill
I judged that such a crystal chill
Was only adding frost to snow
As gilt to gold that wouldn't show.

A brush had left a crooked stroke
Of what was either cloud or smoke
From north to south across the blue;
A piercing little star was through.

Robert Frost


When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

Sonnet II: When Forty Winters Shall Besiege Thy Brow
by William Shakespeare
RIP Thorsten Klein

Othello - last Act, Scene 2

a light burning.

Enter OTHELLO


OTHELLO
It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,--
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!--
It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light:
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me: but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume. When I have pluck'd the rose,
I cannot give it vital growth again.
It must needs wither: I'll smell it on the tree.

Ah balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword! One more, one more.
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
And love thee after. One more, and this the last:
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,
But they are cruel tears: this sorrow's heavenly;
It strikes where it doth love. She wakes.

DESDEMONA
Who's there? Othello?

OTHELLO
Ay. Desdemona.

DESDEMONA
Will you come to bed, my lord?

OTHELLO
Have you pray'd to-night, Desdemona?

DESDEMONA
Ay, my lord.

OTHELLO
If you bethink yourself of any crime
Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace,
Solicit for it straight.

DESDEMONA
Alas, my lord, what do you mean by that?

OTHELLO
Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by:
I would not kill thy unprepared spirit;
No; heaven forfend! I would not kill thy soul.

DESDEMONA
Talk you of killing?

OTHELLO
Ay, I do.

DESDEMONA
Then heaven
Have mercy on me!

OTHELLO
Amen, with all my heart!

DESDEMONA
If you say so, I hope you will not kill me.

OTHELLO
Hum!

DESDEMONA
And yet I fear you; for you are fatal then
When your eyes roll so: why I should fear I know not,
Since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel I fear.

OTHELLO
Think on thy sins.

DESDEMONA
They are loves I bear to you.

OTHELLO
Ay, and for that thou diest.





Die Sache will's, die Sache will's, mein Herz!
Laßt sie mich euch nicht nennen, keusche Sterne! –
Die Sache will's. – Doch nicht ihr Blut vergieß' ich;
Noch ritz' ich diese Haut, so weiß wie Schnee
Und sanft wie eines Denkmals Alabaster. –

Doch sterben muß sie, sonst betrügt sie andre.
Tu' aus das Licht und dann – Tu' aus das Licht; –
Ja, lösch' ich dich, du flammenheller Diener –
Kann ich dein vorig Licht dir wiedergeben,
Sollt' ich's bereun; – doch dein Licht ausgetan,
Du reizend Muster herrlichster Natur,
Nie find' ich den Prometheusfunken wieder,
Dein Licht zu zünden. Pflückt' ich deine Rose,
Nie kann ich ihr den Lebenswuchs erneun,
Sie muß, muß welken; dufte mir vom Stamm! –

O würz'ger Hauch, der selbst Gerechtigkeit
Ihr Schwert zu brechen zwingt! – Noch einen! einen!
Sei, wann du tot bist, so: dann töt' ich dich,
Und liebe dich nachher – noch einen und den letzten!
So süß war nie so tödlich. Ich muß weinen.
Doch sind's grausame Tränen: dieser Schmerz
Ist wie des Himmels, strafend, wo er liebt. –
Sie wacht. –

(William Shakespeare 1564-1616)

Ode

To you particularly, and to all the Volscians
Great hurt and mischief.
Tired.
Subterrene laughter synchronous
With silence from the sacred wood
And bubbling of the uninspired
Mephitic river.
Misunderstood
The accents of the now retired
Profession of the calamus.

Tortured.
When the bridegroom smoothed his hair
There was blood upon the bed.
Morning was already late.
Children singing in the orchard
(Io Hymen, Hymenaee)
Succuba eviscerate.

Tortuous.
By arrangement with Perseus
The fooled resentment of the dragon
Sailing before the wind at dawn
Golden apocalypse. Indignant
At the cheap extinction of his taking-off.
Now lies he there
Tip to tip washed beneath Charles' Wagon.

T. S. Eliot (1888-1965)

A Winter Eden

A winter garden in an alder swamp,
Where conies now come out to sun and romp,
As near a paradise as it can be
And not melt snow or start a dormant tree.

It lifts existence on a plane of snow
One level higher than the earth below,
One level nearer heaven overhead,
And last year's berries shining scarlet red.

It lifts a gaunt luxuriating beast
Where he can stretch and hold his highest feat
On some wild apple tree's young tender bark,
What well may prove the year's high girdle mark.

So near to paradise all pairing ends:
Here loveless birds now flock as winter friends,
Content with bud-inspecting. They presume
To say which buds are leaf and which are bloom.

A feather-hammer gives a double knock.
This Eden day is done at two o'clock.
An hour of winter day might seem too short
To make it worth life's while to wake and sport.

Robert Lee Frost (1874-1963)

The Bells

Hear the sledges with the bells-
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II

Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And an in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III

Hear the loud alarum bells-
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now- now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows:
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-
Of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

IV

Hear the tolling of the bells-
Iron Bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people- ah, the people-
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All Alone
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human-
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells-
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells:
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-
Bells, bells, bells-
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

The Code

There were three in the meadow by the brook
Gathering up windrows, piling cocks of hay,
With an eye always lifted toward the west
Where an irregular sun-bordered cloud
Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger
Flickering across its bosom. Suddenly
One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground,
Marched himself off the field and home. One stayed.
The town-bred farmer failed to understand.
"What is there wrong?"
"Something you just now said."
"What did I say?"
"About our taking pains."
"To cock the hay?--because it's going to shower?
I said that more than half an hour ago.
I said it to myself as much as you."
"You didn't know. But James is one big fool.
He thought you meant to find fault with his work.
That's what the average farmer would have meant.
James would take time, of course, to chew it over
Before he acted: he's just got round to act."
"He is a fool if that's the way he takes me."
"Don't let it bother you. You've found out something.
The hand that knows his business won't be told
To do work better or faster--those two things.
I'm as particular as anyone:
Most likely I'd have served you just the same.
But I know you don't understand our ways.
You were just talking what was in your mind,
What was in all our minds, and you weren't hinting.
Tell you a story of what happened once:
I was up here in Salem at a man's
Named Sanders with a gang of four or five
Doing the haying. No one liked the boss.
He was one of the kind sports call a spider,
All wiry arms and legs that spread out wavy
From a humped body nigh as big's a biscuit.
But work! that man could work, especially
If by so doing he could get more work
Out of his hired help. I'm not denying
He was hard on himself. I couldn't find
That he kept any hours--not for himself.
Daylight and lantern-light were one to him:
I've heard him pounding in the barn all night.
But what he liked was someone to encourage.
Them that he couldn't lead he'd get behind
And drive, the way you can, you know, in mowing--
Keep at their heels and threaten to mow their legs off.
I'd seen about enough of his bulling tricks
(We call that bulling). I'd been watching him.
So when he paired off with me in the hayfield
To load the load, thinks I, Look out for trouble.
I built the load and topped it off; old Sanders
Combed it down with a rake and says, 'O. K.'
Everything went well till we reached the barn
With a big catch to empty in a bay.
You understand that meant the easy job
For the man up on top of throwing down
The hay and rolling it off wholesale,
Where on a mow it would have been slow lifting.
You wouldn't think a fellow'd need much urging
Under these circumstances, would you now?
But the old fool seizes his fork in both hands,
And looking up bewhiskered out of the pit,
Shouts like an army captain, 'Let her come!'
Thinks I, D'ye mean it? 'What was that you said?'
I asked out loud, so's there'd be no mistake,
'Did you say, Let her come?' 'Yes, let her come.'
He said it over, but he said it softer.
Never you say a thing like that to a man,
Not if he values what he is. God, I'd as soon
Murdered him as left out his middle name.
I'd built the load and knew right where to find it.
Two or three forkfuls I picked lightly round for
Like meditating, and then I just dug in
And dumped the rackful on him in ten lots.
I looked over the side once in the dust
And caught sight of him treading-water-like,
Keeping his head above. 'Damn ye,' I says,
'That gets ye!' He squeaked like a squeezed rat.
That was the last I saw or heard of him.
I cleaned the rack and drove out to cool off.
As I sat mopping hayseed from my neck,
And sort of waiting to be asked about it,
One of the boys sings out, 'Where's the old man?'
'I left him in the barn under the hay.
If ye want him, ye can go and dig him out.'
They realized from the way I swobbed my neck
More than was needed something must be up.
They headed for the barn; I stayed where I was.
They told me afterward. First they forked hay,
A lot of it, out into the barn floor.
Nothing! They listened for him. Not a rustle.
I guess they thought I'd spiked him in the temple
Before I buried him, or I couldn't have managed.
They excavated more. 'Go keep his wife
Out of the barn.' Someone looked in a window,
And curse me if he wasn't in the kitchen
Slumped way down in a chair, with both his feet
Stuck in the oven, the hottest day that summer.
He looked so clean disgusted from behind
There was no one that dared to stir him up,
Or let him know that he was being looked at.
Apparently I hadn't buried him
(I may have knocked him down); but my just trying
To bury him had hurt his dignity.
He had gone to the house so's not to meet me.
He kept away from us all afternoon.
We tended to his hay. We saw him out
After a while picking peas in his garden:
He couldn't keep away from doing something."
"Weren't you relieved to find he wasn't dead?"
"No! and yet I don't know--it's hard to say.
I went about to kill him fair enough."
"You took an awkward way. Did he discharge you?"
"Discharge me? No! He knew I did just right."

Robert Frost

Those Images

What if I bade you leave
The cavern of the mind?
There's better exercise
In the sunlight and wind.
I never bade you go
To Moscow or to Rome.
Renounce that drudgery,
Call the Muses home.
Seek those images
That constitute the wild,
The lion and the virgin,
The harlot and the child
Find in middle air

An eagle on the wing,
Recognise the five
That make the Muses sing.

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

Place in Space

Place in Space
the residence of Motion,
or the Secret Mystery of Nature's progress,
being an Elucidation of the Blessed Trinity.
Father - Son - and Holy Ghost.
Space - Place - and Motion.


Space, Place, Father & Son
are inseparable fixed & immoveable.

Motion ye Holy Ghost
Is that which brings all things to the Blessed determination
of the Dei, as in the Gloria Patri, Filii & Spiriti Sancti, etc.


Space is the Circle of Created World
Space is the Place wherein this Engine's rolled
As Place a Center circled in by Space
So Space ye Circle is of place's place
Place is a Center yet Exchange of Place
The Lineal motion is to Space's Space
Place in it Self is ever fixed and still
Which doth ye Vacant Space of Spaces fill
Space can not Move because it all Contains
Yet Space is Motion, place where Power reigns
Nor Space nor Place do ever Stir nor Move
Yet place in Space is restless Motions Grove
Great is the Magic of this motion's race
Motion in Space doth pass from place to place
Thus Motion caught in all including Space
Standing in centers moved to Circle's place
Motion is that which runs the world about
Yet it a place is never found without
Place it is Still from Motion never free
Move and not move how can it ever be.
This riddle placed in Space of mental motion
Is plane to sense without erratic notion
Motion's confined to various centriq place
Never to pass ye boundless bounds of Space
Thus each beginning doth its end contain
And End once made it must begin again
For what was done by one Creating Word
Must by this Three in one be understood
If any ask how this could ever be done
Tell them the word is Father, Ghost and Son
Before that time was made Creatural
God in himself was the great all in all
But to extend the virtue of his power
Of nothing all things made for his one bower
Thus was the great abyssive might
Formed into Creature, whence produced was Light
This light to Nature joined both firmly stood
As primo genitors and to beings food
The product of this all including one
In Triple Creature most divinely shown
Prangeth it self by measure of formation
To be the being's being of Creation
Thus were the heavens and the Earth begot
Both out of darkness unto Light was brought
From whence was made twixt one and t'other
Father, & Mother, Sister, & Brother
Four in number as the Elements are
Conjointly work to procreate their par
Fire is the Father, and the Mother is air
Brother and Sister, Earth and Water, are
These in their number weight and Measure
Make of this world the hidden treasure
Joined them thro light let them unite together
That they may live in love and be for Ever
So is the Quatrant four in one
The Matter Form and Essence of our Stone.


Transcribed by Adam McLean from MS. Sloane

In Drear-Nighted December

In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.

In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?
The feel of not to feel it,
When there is none to heal it
Nor numbed sense to steel it,
Was never said in rhyme.

John Keats (1795-1821)

Hohelied Salomos

Der Gesang der Gesänge, der Schlomos ist

Er tränke mich mit den Küssen seines Mundes!
Ja, gut tut mehr als Wein deine Minne,
gut tut der Duft deiner Öle,
als Öl hat sich dein Name ergossen,
darum lieben dich die Mädchen.

Zieh mich dir nach, laufen wir!
Brächte der König mich in seine Gemächer,
jauchzen wollten wir und uns freuen an dir.
Mehr als Wein rühmen wir deine Minne:
geradeaus liebt man dich.
Schwarz bin und anmutig ich,
Töchter Jerusalems,
wie die Zelte von Kedar, wie die Behänge Schlomos.
Sehet nimmer mich an,
daß ich eine Schwärzliche bin,
drum daß mich die Sonne versengte!
Die Söhne meiner Mutter sind entflammt wider mich.
Sie setzten mich als Hüterin der Wingerte ein,
aber meinen eignen Wingert habe ich nicht gehütet.

Melde mir doch, den meine Seele liebt,
wo doch weidest du,
wo doch lagerst du am Mittag, -
denn warum soll ich wie eine Schmachtende sein
an den Herden deiner Genossen!

- Wenns dir nicht zu wissen getan ist,
Schönste unter den Weibern,
zieh vor dich hin in den Spuren des Kleinviehs,
und weide deine Zicklein um die Wohnstätten der Hirten!

Einer Stute in Pharaos Gefährt
vergleiche, meine Freundin, ich dich,
Anmutig sind deine Wangen in Kettlein,
dein Hals im Muschelngeschling, -
Goldkettlein machen wir dir,
Silberklümplein daran.

- Solang der König an seiner Tafel ist,
gibt meine Narde ihren Duft,
Ein Myrrhenbüschel ist mir mein Minner,
es weilt mir zwischen den Brüsten,
eine Zypertraube ist mir mein Minner,
in Engedis Wingertgeländ.

- Da, schön bist du, meine Freundin,
da, schön bist du, deine Augen sind Tauben.

- Da, schön bist du, mein Minner, gar hold,
- Frisch gar ist unser Bett,
das Gebälk unsres Hauses sind Zedern,
unsre Sparren sind Wacholder.

- Ich bin das Narzisslein des Scharon,
die Lilie der Tiefebenen.

- Wie eine Lilie unter den Dornen,
so ist meine Freundin unter den Töchtern.

- Wie ein Apfelbaum unter dem Waldgehölz,
so ist mein Minner unter den Söhnen.
Nach seinem Schatten begehre ich, sitze nieder,
und süß ist seine Frucht meinem Gaum.
Er hat ins Haus des Weins mich gebracht,
und über mir ist sein Banner, Liebe.
Stärket mich mit Rosinengepreß,
erquickest mich mit Äpfeln,
denn ich bin krank vor Liebe.

Seine Linke ist mir unterm Haupt,
und seine Rechte kost mich. -

Ich beschwöre euch,
Töchter Jerusalems,
bei den Gazellen oder bei den Hinden der Flur:
störtet, aufstörtet ihr die Liebe,
bis ihrs gefällt,....!

Hall meines Minners!
Da, eben kommt er!
hüpft über die Berge,
springt über die Hügel!
Mein Minner gleicht der Gazelle
oder dem Hirschböcklein.
Da, eben steht er
hinter unserer Mauer,
lugt durch die Fenster,
guckt durch die Gitter.

Mein Minner hebt an,
er spricht zu mir:
»Mach dich auf,
meine Freundin,
meine Schöne,
und geh vor dich hin!

Denn da, vorbei ist der Winter,
der Regen schwand, er verging,
die Blüten lassen im Lande sich sehn,
angelangt ist die Zeit des Liedes,
der Stimmhall der Turtel läßt in unserm Lande sich hören,
die Feige färbt ihre Knoten,
die Reben, knospend, geben Duft, -
mach dich auf zum Gehn,
meine Freundin, meine Schöne,
und geh vor dich hin!«

- Meine Taube in den Felsenschlüften,
im Verstecke des Steigs,
laß mich dein Angesicht sehn,
laß mich deine Stimme hören,
denn süß ist deine Stimme,
anmutig ist dein Gesicht.

- Fangt uns die Füchse,
die kleinen Füchse,
Wingerte verderben sie,
und unsre Wingerte knospen!

- Mein Minner ist mein,
und ich bin sein,
der unter Lilien weidet.
Solang der Tag im Verwehn ist
und die Schatten weichen,
wende dich herzu,
gleiche du, mein Minner,
der Gazelle oder dein Hirschböcklein
über die Berge der Trennung hin!
Auf meiner Ruhestatt
in den Nächten
suche ich ihn,
den meine Seele liebt,
suche ich ihn
und finde ihn nicht.
Aufmachen will ich mich doch
und die Stadt durchziehn,
über die Plätze, über die Gassen,
suchen, den meine Seele liebt!

Ich suchte ihn
und ich fand ihn nicht.
Mich fanden die Wächter,
die in der Stadt einherziehn -
»Den meine Seele liebt,
saht ihr ihn ?«

Kaum war ich an ihnen vorbei,
da fand ich,
den meine Seele liebt.
Ich faßte ihn an
und ließ ihn nicht los,
bis daß ich ihn brachte
ins Haus meiner Mutter,
in die Kammer meiner Gebärerin.

Ich beschwöre euch,
Töchter Jerusalems,
bei den Gazellen oder bei den Hinden der Flur:
störtet, aufstörtet ihr die Liebe, bis ihrs gefällt, ...!

- Was ist dies,
heransteigend von der Wüste
Rauchsäulen gleich,
umdampft von Myrrhe und Weihrauch,
von allem Pulver des Krämers?
Da, sein Tragbett, das Schlomos,
sechzig Helden rings um es her,
von den Helden Jisraels,
Schwertträger sie alle,
Kampfgeübte,
jedermann an seiner Hüfte sein Schwert,
wegen des Schreckens in den Nächten.

Eine Sänfte machte sich der König Schlomo
aus Hölzern des Libanon,
ihre Ständer machte er silbern,
ihre Lehne golden,
ihren Sitz purpurn,
ihr Inwendiges eingelegt,
Liebesarbeit von den Töchtern Jerusalems.
Geht heran,
seht herzu,
Töchter Zions,
auf den König Schlomo in der Krone,
damit seine Mutter ihn krönte
am Tag seiner Vermählung,
am Tag seiner Herzensfreude.

-Da, du bist schön,
meine Freundin,
du bist schön.
Deine Augen sind Tauben,
hinter deinem Schleier hervor,
dein Haar ist wie eine Herde von Ziegen,
die vom Gebirge Gilad wallen,
deine Zähne sind wie eine Herde von Schurschafen,
die aus der Schwemme steigen,
die alle zwieträchtig sind,
fehlwürfig keins unter ihnen.
Wie eine Karmesinschnur sind deine Lippen
und anmutig dein Redegerät.

Wie ein Riß der Granatfrucht ist deine Schläfe,
hinter deinem Schleier hervor.
Wie Dawids Turm ist dein Hals,
für Umreihungen ist der gebaut,
das Tausend der Schilde hängt dran,
alle Rüstung der Helden.

Deine zwei Brüste sind wie zwei Kitzlein,
Zwillinge einer Gazelle,
die unter Lilien weiden.
Solang der Tag im Verwehn ist
und die Schatten weichen,
gehe ich zum Myrrhenberg,
zum Weihrauchhügel.

Schön bist du, meine Freundin, allsamt,
kein Flecken an dir.
Mit mir vom Libanon, Braut,
mit mir vom Libanon komm,
schau nieder vom Haupt des Amana,
vom Haupt des Schnir und des Chermon,
von den Gehegen der Löwen, von den Bergen der Pardel!

Du hast mir das Herz versehrt,
meine Schwester-Braut,
du hast mir das Herz versehrt
mit einem deiner Augen,
mit einer Drehung deines Halsgeschmeids.

Wie schön ist deine Minne, meine Schwester-Braut,
wie gut tut deine Minne, mehr als Wein
und der Duft deiner Öle als alle Balsame!
Seim träufen deine Lippen, Braut,
Honig und Milch sind unter deiner Zunge,
der Duft deiner Tücher ist wie des Libanon Duft.

Ein verriegelter Garten ist meine Schwester-Braut,
ein verriegelter Born,
ein versiegelter Quell.
Was dir sich entrankt,
ein Granatenhain ists
mit köstlicher Frucht,
Zyperblumen mit Narden,
Narde, Aloe, Kalmus und Zimt
mit allem Auszug der Balsame.

Ein Gartenquell ists,
ein Brunnen lebendigen Wassers,
rieselnd vom Libanon her.
Erwache, Nord,
komm, Süd,
wehe durch meinen Garten,
daß seine Balsame rieseln!
In seinen Garten komme mein Minner
und esse von seiner köstlichen Frucht.

- ich komme zu meinem Garten,
meine Schwester-Braut,
ich pflücke meine Myrrhe mit meinein Balsam,
ich esse meine Wabe mit meinem Honig,
ich trinke meinen Wein mit meiner Milch.
Esset, Freunde, trinket, und berauschet euch an der Minne!

- Ich schlafe,
und mein Herz wacht.
Hall meines Minners!
Er pocht.
»Öffne mir,
meine Schwester, meine Freundin,
meine Taube, meine Heile,
da mein Haupt voller Tau ist,
meine Locken voller Tröpfen der Nacht.
« Ich habe meinen Rock abgestreift,
wie doch soll ich ihn wieder antun!
Ich habe meine Füße gebadet,
wie doch soll ich sie wieder beschmutzen!

Mein Minner streckt die Hand durch die Luke,
und mein Leib wallt auf ihn zu.
Ich mache mich auf,
meinem Minner zu öffnen, -
meine Hände triefen von Myrrhe,
meine Finger von Myrrhenharz
am Griffe des Riegels.

Ich öffne, ich meinem Minner, -
mein Minner ist abgebogen, hinweg.
Meine Seele geht aus,
seiner Rede nach,
ich suche ihn, nicht finde ich ihn,
ich rufe ihn, nicht entgegnet er mir.
Mich finden die Wächter,
die in der Stadt einherziehn,
sie schlagen mich, verwunden mich,
meinen Burnus heben sie mir ab,
die Wächter der Mauern.

- »Ich beschwöre euch,
Töchter Jerusalems,
findet ihr meinen Minner,
was wollt ihr ihm melden?
Daß ich krank vor Liebe bin.«

-»Was ist dein Minner mehr als irgendein Minner,
Schönste unter den Weibern,
was ist dein Minner mehr als irgendein Minner,
daß du so, so uns beschwörst?«

- »Mein Minner ist blank und rötlich,
ragend aus einer Myriade,
sein Haupt gediegenes Feinerz,
seine Locken Dattelrispen,
schwarz wie der Rabe,
seine Augen wie Tauben
an Wasserbächen,
in Milch gebadet,
am Gefüllten ruhend,
seine Wangen wie Balsambeete,
die Würzkräuter wachsen lassen,
seine Lippen Lilien,
von Myrrhenharz triefend,
seine Hände goldene Walzen,
von Chalzedonen umfüllt,
sein Leib eine Elfenbeinplatte,
mit Saphiren besteckt,
seine Schenkel Alabasterständer,
auf Feinerzsockel gegründet,
sein Ansehn wie des Libanonbaums,
auserlesen wie Zedern,
sein Gaum Süßigkeiten,
und allsamt ist er Wonnen.

Dies ist mein Minner,
dies ist mein Freund,
Töchter Jerusalems!«

- »Wohin, ist dein Minner gegangen,
Schönste unter den Weibern,
wohin hat sich dein Minner gewandt?
wir wollen mit dir ihn suchen.«

-»Mein Minner steigt zu seinem Garten hinab,
zu den Balsambeeten,
in den Gartengründen zu weiden,
Lilien zu lesen.
Ich bin meines Minners,
mein Minner ist mein,
der unter Lilien weidet.«

- Schön bist du, meine Freundin,
wie Tirza, die »Gnadenstadt«,
anmutig wie Jerusalem,
furchtbar wie sie, die Fahnenumschwungnen.
Kehre von mir ab deine Augen,
drum daß sie mich verwirren!

Dein Haar ist wie eine Herde von Ziegen,
die vom Gilad wallen,
deine Zähne wie eine Herde von Schafen,
die aus der Schwemme steigen,
die alle zwieträchtig sind,
fehlwürfig keins unter ihnen.

Wie ein Riß der Granatfrucht ist deine Wange,
hinter deinem Schleier hervor.
Sechzig sinds der Königinnen,
achtzig der Kebsen,
und Mädchen ohne Zahl, -

eine einzige ist meine Taube,
meine Heile,
eine einzige ist sie bei ihrer Mutter,
eine Erkorne bei ihrer Gebärerin.

Die Töchter sehn sie, und heißen sie beglückt,
die Königinnen und Kebsen, und preisen sie.

- Wer ist diese,
die vorglänzt wie das Morgenrot,
schön wie der Mond,
lauter wie der Glutball,
furchtbar wie die Fahnenumschwungnen?

- Zu meinem Nußgarten stieg ich hinab,
die Triebe im Tal zu besehn,
zu sehn, ob die Rebe treibt,
ob die Granaten erblühn,
da - ich keine meine Seele nicht mehr -
versetzt michs ins Gefährt
meines Gesellen, des edlen.

- Dreh dich, dreh dich,
Schulamitin,
dreh dich, dreh dich,
daß wir dich beschaun!

- Was wollt ihr an der Schulamitin beschaun?
- Etwas, das dem Reigen des Doppellagers gleicht!
Wie schön sind deine Tritte in den Schuhn,
Tochter des Edlen!
Die Biegungen deiner Hüften
sind gleichwie Spangen,
Werk der Hände eines Meisters.
Dein Schoß ist eine Rundschale, -
nimmer ermangle sie des Mischtranks!
Dein Bauch ist ein Weizenhaufen,
von Lilien umsteckt.
Deine zwei Brüste sind wie zwei Kitzlein,
Zwillinge einer Gazelle.
Dein Hals ist wie ein Elfenbeinturm.
Deine Augen sind die Teiche in Cheschbon
am Tore von Bat-rabbim.
Deine Nase ist wie der Libanonturm,
der nach Damaskus hin späht.
Dein Haupt auf dir ist wie der Karmel,
die Flechten deines Hauptes wie Purpur, -
ein König verstrickt sich in den Ringeln.

- Wie schön und wie mild bist du,
Liebe, im Genießen!
Dieser Wuchs dein ähnelt der Palme
und deine Brüste den Trauben.
Ich habe zu mir gesprochen:
Ersteigen will ich die Palme,
greifen will ich ihre Rispen,
daß doch deine Brüste seien wie Trauben des Rebstocks
und deines Nasenatems Duft wie von Äpfeln
und dein Gaum wie der gute Wein...
- ...der gradaus in meinen Minner eingeht,
- ...noch im Schlaf macht er die Lippen sich regen.

- Ich bin meines Minners,
nach mir ist sein Begehren.
Geh heran, nein Minner,
ziehn wir ins Feld hinaus,
nachten wir an den Dörfern,
besuchen die Wingerte wir in der Frühe,
besehn wir,
ob der Rebstock treibt,
ob die Knospe sich öffnet,
ob die Granaten erblühn; -
dort will ich meine Minne dir geben.
Die Minnebeeren geben Duft aus,
an unsern Türen sind allerhand Köstlichkeiten,
neue, auch alte,
für dich, mein Minner, habe ich sie aufgespart.

Wer gibt dich mir als Bruder,
der an meiner Mutter Brüsten sog!
Fände ich dich auf der Gasse, ich küßte dich
und sie dürften mein doch nicht spotten,
ich führte dich,
ich brächte dich
in meiner Mutter Haus,
du müßtest mich lehren,
mit Würzwein tränkte ich dich,
mit Granatenmost. -

Seine Linke mir unterm Haupt,
und seine Rechte kost mich.
ich beschwöre euch,
Töchter Jerusalems,
störtet, aufstörtet ihr die Liebe,
bis ihrs gefällt,

- Wer ist diese,
heransteigend von der Wüste,
an ihren Minner gelehnt?

- Unter dem Apfelbaum
habe ich dich aufgestört,
eben dort kam in Wehn mit dir deine Mutter,
eben dort lag in Wehn deine Gebärerin.

Setze mich wie ein Siegel
dir auf das Herz,
wie einen Siegelreif dir um den Arm,
denn gewaltsam wie der Tod ist die Liebe,
hart wie das Gruftreich das Eifern,
ihre Flitze Feuerflitze, -
eine Lohe oh von Ihm her!
Die vielen Wasser vermögen nicht die Liebe zu löschen,
die Ströme können sie nicht überfluten.
Gäbe ein Mann allen Schatz seines Hauses um die Liebe,
man spottete, spottete sein.

- »Unser ist eine Schwester, eine kleine,
sie hat noch keine Brüste, -
was wollen mit unsrer Schwester wir tun
am Tag, da man um sie redet?«

- »Ist sie eine Mauer,
baun eine Silberzinne wir drauf,
und ist sie eine Pforte,
rammeln eine Zedernplanke wir dran.«

- Nun ich eine Mauer bin,
meine Brüste Türmen gleich,
so ward ich in seinen Augen
wie eine, die Befriedung fand.

- Einen Wingert hatte Schlomo in Baal-Hamon,
er übergab den Wingert den Hütern, -
jedermann brächte für seine Frucht tausend Vollgewicht Silbers herbei.
Den Wingert, der mir eignet, habe ich mir vom Antlitz, -
dein, Schlomo, seien die tausend
und der Fruchthüter zweihundert.«

- Die du in den Gärten verweilst,
Gefährten lauschen deiner Stimme,
lasse mich hören!
- Flieh herzu, mein Minner,
gleiche du der Gazelle
oder dem Hirschböcklein -
über die Berge der Balsame!

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Von dem vierdten Planeten

SOLE

Die gantze Welt mit meinem Schein /
Geb ich Leuchtung allein gemein /
Beyd bös und fromb die blick ich an /
Und sehe keine Person an /
Mein Lauff ich also bald verricht /
Drumb man solchs gar kan sehen nicht /
In hundert sechtzig und fünff Tag /
In solchen gar vollbringen mag.
Auch kan wohl werdn auß meinem Kleid /
Ein Wasser hertzlich zubereit /
Das in gar kurtz geringer Stund /
Manchen Menschen macht frisch und gesund /
Der Schlüssel aller Heimlichkeit /
An mir allein gäntzlich nur leid /
Der mir aus Gottes Gnad Gewalt /
Vom Engel Michael zugestalt /
Mein Kunst gehört zur Grammatika,
Liß recht im Buch / so findst dus da /
Dann wirst du mir wahr müssen geben /
Daß Justitia noch ist am Leben /
Und jederzeit noch schwebet oben /
Wiewol sie offtmahls wird betrogen /
Mein Sohn führt ein Carbunckelstein /
So nicht jedermann ist gemein /
Wenn ich Raht halt mit Potentaten /
Ist mir der Sontag stets geraten.
Löse auff meinen fixen Leib
Und darauß ein Mercurium treib /
Und gib ihm zu des Weibes Blut /
Davon ich selbsten hab mein Gut /
Speiß uns beyde mit Saltz gantz recht /
Die zugehört meinem Geschlecht /
So wirst du finden in deim Sinn /
Ob ich nicht rechter König bin.
O Mohn / es ist mein höchste Bitt /
Daß du mich wollst verlassen nicht /
Weil Venus schon ist auff dem Plan /
Dein Zier und Schmuck zu ziehen an /
Wiewohl wir beyde sämptlich gleich
Von ihr geziert und worden reich /
Dem denke nach gantz fleissig stet /
Das laß ich dir hier zum Valet.

Basilius Valentinus




"I have no name;
I am but two days old."
What shall I call thee?
"I happy am,
Joy is my name."
Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy!
Sweet joy, but two days old.
Sweet Joy I call thee:
Thou dost smile,
I sing the while;
Sweet joy befall thee!

William Blake (1757-1827)

Von dem ersten und höchsten Planeten

SATURNO

Ich komm vom höchsten Himmel her /
Und scheine oben weit und fern /
Daß man mich kaum erkennen kan /
Im Sinn bin ich ein Wunderman /
Hab gar ein melancholisch Art /
Davon hab ich mein greissen Bart /
Der Sambstag ward mir zugethan /
Wie er sein Nahm von mir bekam /
Mein Lauff der ist gantz Circkelring /
Denselben in dreissig Jahren vollbring /
Fünff Tag / sechs Stund gehörn auch darzu /
Noch kan ich haben keine Ruh /
Der Steinbock und der Wassermann /
Die zween sind mein Unterthan /
Ein schön Granaht Stein klar und hell /
Gab mir mein Engel Oriphiel.
Ich sitz und rechne Tag und Nacht /
Wie ich viel Gut bekommen mag /
Wie thun die alten Geitzigen gleich /
Die nimmer können werden reich /
Drumb heißt mein Kunst Astronomey /
Zu rechnen was für Farb ich sey /
Da findst du schwarz / weiß /gelb / und roht /
Bestehn aber nicht in der Noht.
Mein Geist ist süß / kalt wie ein Eiß /
In rauben / stehlen hab ich Preiß.
Da gebunden aber wird der Geist /
So thu ich auch was ich verheiß /
Kan zähmen / ändern / und auch binden /
Das sonsten alles bleibt dahinden.
Fides die Tugendreich solchs lehrt /
Wie ich im Alter ward bekehrt /
Mein Steltzen warff ich von mir weg /
Daß ich ohn sie ging meinen Weg /
Ein rothes Oel domahls drauß war /
Per extractionem offenbahr /
Distillirt darnach gantz lauter hell /
Das Band Mercurium bald und schnell /
So fix und standhafft seinen Geist /
Gleich wie das feine Silber weiß /
Daß solchs zu einem Pulver war /
Entgangen aller Sorg und Gfahr /
Doch nimb dir gantz und gar zu Sinn /
Daß kein gemeines Bley ich bin /
Sondern viel einer andern Art /
Wie dir mein Büchlein offenbahrt /
Bereit auß einem Mineral /
Rechnest du recht / trifft du die Zahl /
zu probirn bin erkohren ich /
Wer mich besteht / behält den Stich /
Und kan den Himmel nicht erlangen /
Davon ich zwar bin außgegangen /
Ich citir das flüchtig all zurecht /
Das danck mir alten greisen Knecht /
Unfixen Metallen bin ich ein Todt /
Und führe sie in Angst und Noht /
Aber wer mich recht sucht und kennt /
Geb ich genug biß an sein End.
Mein Sense scharf haut alles ab /
Hiermit sag ich der Welt schab ab.

Basilius Valentinus

Von dem fünfften Planeten

VENERE

Der Venus-Stern mein Nahme heißt /
Mein Wirckung ich stetig beweiß
Bey denen, so sind meine Kind /
Und gschossen von meim Sohne blind /
Der Cupido anfangs ward genandt /
Sein Pfeil fliegen in alle Land /
Das zeigen Mann und Weiber zwar /
So sich der Lieb ergeben gar /
Die Music ist mein freye Kunst /
Die ich regier durch Liebes-Brunst /
Mit Seitenspiel beweiß ich daß /
Drumb heißt mein Tugend Charitas,
Ich speiß mich gern mit gutem Wein /
Und muß stetigs in Freuden seyn /
All Kurzweil so man kann erdencken /
An meinem Hoff gehn all in Schwencken /
Mein himmlich Haus ist Wag und Stier /
Die ich in meim Wapen führ /
Mein Lauff am hohen Firmament /
In dreyhundertfünffig Tagen vollend /
Anael mein Engel ist /
Der mich bewahret für aller List /
Hat mir geschenckt ein Edlen-stein /
So da Smaragd heißt in gemein /
Durchsichtig / grün / lieblich von Glantz /
Bin ich von Farben gar und gantz /
Doch stickt in mir ein rother Geist /
Kein Nahmen weiß ich wie er heißt /
Den ich von meinem Mann bekam /
Dem streitbaren Marte lobesam /
Da ich noch war ein Mineral /
Der Erden zu vergleichen gar /
Nun bin ich aber ein hitzigs Feuer /
Ein Ertzeney kräfftig und theuer /
Dazu mich hat Gewalt gebracht /
Daß ich erlangt eine neue Krafft /
Den Athem / so ich blaß mit Macht /
Wann davon trinckt der alte Drach /
So geb ich ihm ein neue Seel /
Und werde gar ein herzlichs Oel /
Darauß ein Tinctur wird bereit /
Mit seines gleichen hoch bekleidt /
So ferben kan das weiß in roht /
Solch fixes Pulver hilfft in Noth /
Mein Bräutgam ist die klare Sonn /
Davon bekomm ich Freud und Wonn /
Und er von mir hinwiederumb /
Stärk / Macht und Krafft / und auch Reichthumb /
Solch Erb und Gut bekompt mein Sohn /
Und bulet mit dem kalten Mohn /
Er wärmt der Luna ihren Leib /
Auff daß da schwanger wird das Weib /
Und hinterlassen kan ein Zucht /
Mit viel unzahlbar guter Frucht /
Der tausend wirds nicht würdig seyn /
Was in mir steckt für groß Geheim /
Das hier zu guter Nacht ich sag /
Der Freytag hat sein eigen Tag /
Drumb last Frau Venus nur passiren /
Sie kan dich noch in Reichthumb führen.

Basilius Valentinus


Ah, Passion, like a voice—that buds!
With many thorns . . . that sharply stick:
Recalls to me the longing of our bloods . . .
And—makes my wearied heart requick!
H. P. Lovecraft

Von dem andern Planeten

JOVE

Vor Zeiten macht ich viel Leute gelehrt /
Daher man für ein Gott mich ehrt /
Und sonderlich den Donnerstag
Für andern ich geehret ward /
Den Tag ich stetigs noch erwehl /
Mein Engel heißt Zachariel,
An meinem Hoff hab ich viel Leut /
So all von mir begehrn Außbeut /
Zur Haltung ihr Hauß / Hoff und Tisch /
Mein Unterthan sind Schütz und Fisch.
Recht sprech ich Reich und Armn Sententz /
Wann ich sitz in der Audienz /
Drumb mir der Scepter zwar gebührt /
Rhetorica mein Zunge führt /
Und setzt mir auff ein Lorbeer-Krantz /
Setziert mir Rosen gar und gantz /
Darzuein schöne güldne Kron /
Versatzt mit dem Topasion,
Damit man übt / daß ich ein Herz /
Die Spes verläßt mich nimmermehr /
Ich kleide / weiß / gelb und blau /
In Winterszeiten auch wol grau /
Mein Reiß verricht ich also gschwind /
In zwölff Jahren mein Lauff vollbring.
Wer da ist fern und weit bekandt /
Der findet mein Schatz in Engelland /
Da muß ich fahren über Meer /
Das Wasser ist gesaltzen sehr.
Mein Geist / mein Seel / und auch mein Leib /
Künstlich und subtil von einander scheid /
Und füg sie wieder gar in ein /
Mach sie zu einem Pulver klein /
Vermische recht nach dem Gewicht /
Andern Metallen recht zugericht /
So wirst du dann befinden recht /
Das ich ein Herr / und nicht ein Knecht /
Sondern alles gleich mit vermag /
Was Gott uns Glück vergönnet hat /
Drumb halte Jovem recht in ehrn /
Er kan dir alles guts beschern.


Basilius Valentinus

Von dem sechsten Planeten

MERCURIO

Den Mittwochn zwar hab ich erkohrn /
Wie ich anfänglich war gebohrn /
Gab bald der Erden gute Nacht /
Und nach eim höhern Stande tracht /
Verließ sie damahls gantz und gar /
Ob gleich dieselb mein Mutter war /
Und suchte Freundschafft in der Lufft /
Flog bald davon durch Wind und Dufft /
All Farben / so sind in der Welt /
Mein Mutter hat mir zugestellt /
Drumb gab mir Raphael ein Cristall /
Darauß zu machen was ich wol /
Weil solche nimbt all Farben an /
So man nicht all erzehlen kan /
Jungfrau und Zwilling habens vollführt /
Das die Cristall koaguliert /
Raphael gabe aber Macht /
Mich wieder in Mercurium bracht /
Kalt und warm ist alls in mir /
Ich steh / lauff auch bald hin und her /
Bin gar ein abentheuerlich Mann /
Daß man mich nicht ausrechnen kan /
Dann wie ich hielt ein Disciplin /
Arithmetic war der Schüler mein /
Der all sein Kunst von mir nur hat /
Empfangen durch Gottes Gnad /
Mein Gang verricht ich auf der Fahrt /
In dreyhundert fünffzig Tag /
Und wann die Welt wer noch so weit /
Mit vielen Künsten zubereit /
So wird kein Mensch den grossen Stein /
Machen / ich muß dabey seyn /
Versteh / du seyst Herr oder Knecht /
Merck auff / vernimb mein Red jetzt recht /
Und hab wol acht auff meinen Sinn /
Gemein Quecksilber ich nicht bin /
Gebohrn von einer edlen Art /
Ehe ich zu einem Adler wart /
Jetzt hab ich Flügel wunderbar /
An Händ und Füssen / Häupt und Haar /
Darzu auch an meim gantzen Leib /
Bin ich mit Federn gantz bekleidt.
Da nun ein Mensche wer so klug /
Der mit Verstand und gutem Fug /
Verschaffen könt mir abzuschiessen /
Der wird mein trefflich wol geniessen /
Und haben könt mehr Gut und Geld /
Als glauben möcht die gantze Welt /
Viel Leute aber diese Schrifft /
Versporten werden / wissen nicht /
Was Anfang / Mittel oder End /
Ehe sie erfahrn / was ich vollend.
Ich wil mich nun auffschwingen thun /
Von hinnen in den höchsten Thron /
Und wieder steigen zu der Hellen /
Zu meinen andern sechs Gesellen /
Wil zusehn / wies eim jeden geht /
Ob er auch Frost und Hitz besteht /
Auch ob sie mich treulich wollen / pflichten
Daß ich das höchste kan verrichten /
Und da mich dann der König bhält /
So bleibt er Herr der gantzen Welt /
Das kan Ruperto auch gelingen /
Drumb magst du wol das Credo singen.


Basilius Valentinus

Von dem dritten Planeten

MARTE

Da ich die gantze Welt durchzog /
Mit meinem lagen Spiesse hoch /
Und manchen Krieg lieff auf und nieder /
Darnach auch kam zu Hause wieder /
Brachte mit mir ein gute Beut /
Da kohren mich alle Kriegsleut /
Für einen Hauptmann in das Feld /
Von mir wolt jederman habn Geld.
Das brachte mir gar manchen Strauß /
Groß Stück und Unglück stund ich auß /
Da Samuel der Engel gut /
Mich damals nicht gehabt in hut /
Ich were lang in Todt gerahten /
Und geben einen Hellebraten /
Aber ich sag noch Lob und Danck
Meim Gott / der mir den Engel fand /
Und ob gleich Widder / Scorpion /
Im Kriege sind mein Unterthan /
So haben sie doch manchen Griff /
Im Zuge wider mich gericht /
Und da sie mir nichtwern entgangen /
Ich wollt sie an die Bäum lan hangen /
Mein Schwerdt ist eitel lauter Stahl /
Und blinckt wie ein Rubin so klar /
Der auch darin versetzet ist /
Dasselb gar manchen Mann auffrist /
Dringt durch männlich und unverzagt /
Durchauß nach keinem Menschen fragt.
Bey Friedenszeit bin ich nicht froh /
Mein Tugend heißt Fortitudo,
Wann ich bracht werd umb Leib und Lebn /
So wil ich all mein Güter gebn
Meiner Frau Königin hochgebohrn /
Venus gantz milde außerkohrn /
Die mag solchs ferner thun verehrn /
Mein edelst Kleid das ist gantz roht /
Wie Purpurfarb bekleidet hoch /
Darauß wird eine Artzeney /
Bereitet zu viel Sachen frey /
Doch ich allein kan nichts verrichten /
Wann mein Geselln nicht bey mir pflichten /
Dann unser mehr muß seyn zu hauff /
In zwey Jahren ich meinen Lauff /
Gäntzlich vollend und thu vollführen /
Eh ich das End kan absolviren.
Auff einen Dienstag hab ich macht /
Daß mancher Mensche gar nicht acht /
Kein Flügel sind mir angebohrn /
Sie werden mir denn auserkohrn /
Daß ich mit fahr in Lufft und Wind /
Da die Berge am höchsten sind /
Auch da der Himmel hat ein End /
Und mich dann wieder nieder send /
Mach auß mir gleich ein Wind und Geist /
Der Venus mich gäntzlich verheiß /
Dann wirst du sehn obs sey erlogen /
Daß Sol und Luna sind betrogen /
Doch muß´ich seyn standhafft gemacht /Sol ich vollführen meinen Pracht.

Basilius Valentinus


Dienstag, der 7. Dezember 2010
Tarot de Marseilles: La Morte
11837 Tage vergangen seit
11. Juli 1978, ebenfalls ein Dienstag.
Farbe des Enneagramm: 7 - Violett
Tarot de Marseilles: 7 - Le Chariot
Wachstumskarte: 12 - Le Pendu
Sternzeichen:
Krebs (westlich)
Erd-Pferd (chinesisch)
Specht (indianisch)
Geburtszahl 7

Von dem siebenden Planeten

LUNA

Wann ich nicht wer ein weiblich Bild /
Dem König zugethan so mild /
Wo wolt doch bleiben sein Geschlecht /
Das ich erhalten muß sein recht.
Mein kalter Leib ist wunderbar /
Denn mir erwärmt der König klar /
Darzu Venus Anreitzung gab /
Daß ich erstlich mein Willn drein gab /
Gabriel mir Verkündigung that /
Daß ich dem König verlobet ward /
Und brachte mir ein Stein so theuer /
In Gold gefaßt / war ein Sapier /
Durchsichtig blau / von Farb geziert /
Des Königs wegen mir verehrt /
Und sagt mir bey der Treue mein /
Daß ich des Königs Weib solt seyn /
Darauff solt ich mich resolviren /
In all sein Guht wolt er mich führen /
Mein beste Kunst die brauch ich da /
Welche heißt Dialectica,
Und red wie einem Weib gebührt /
Prudentia mich instituirt /
Verheiß ihn zwar mein edlen Leib /
Biß uns der Todt von einander scheid /
Und ich vollbracht mein Lauff gar hab /
Geschicht in zwanzig sieben Tag /
Sieben Stund und zwantzig drey Minut /
Den Circkel gantz durchlauff so gut /
In neunzehn Jahren auff dem Plan /
Dann sah ichs wieder auffs neue an /
Und wann ichs rechne umb und umb /
So kom ich alle Monat rumb /
Mein Seel / mein Geist und meinem Leib /
Hab ich meim König zugeeignt /
Dasselb auff einen Montag war /
Wie ich ihm zugesaget gar /
Dem Menschen bring ich grosse Kraft /
So ich potabil werd gemacht /
Bin innen blau / und aussen weiß /
Wann ich erlang den fixen Preiß /
So kleidet mich Venus zu hand /
In Scharlach und Purpur Gwand /
Das sie doch von dem Marti hat /
Erlangt / durch Bitt und grosse Gnad.
Uns so man Spießglas wolte fragen /
So würd der Sulphur auch was sagen /
Hiemit nun scheide ich von hinnen /
Ein ander mag auch etwas finden /
Zuletzt macht man doch das Gelack /
Exitus acta probat.
Das ist stettgs gewest mein Reim /
Bey Tag und auch bey Mond es scheint.
Flieg doch gleich durch das Firmament /
Endlich find sichs doch bald am End.

Basilius Valentinus

Experience and Philosophy

Have you not heard yee Princes great, you Lords & Ladies all,
Of the mishap and heavy chaunce that now of late did fall?
A wofull Tale to tell
Who could expresse it well:
Oh that some learned Poet had byne
With me, to se that I have sene:
Or else some other standing by,
That well could write a Tragidy
Of lasting fame and memory.
For yet not since this World began,
Such cry, such clamour as was than
Heard never any earthly Man.

Experience that Princesse greate, I saw her in her Throne
Of glory, where her Majesty delightes to sitt upon;
And on her wayting by
A blessed Company
Of Virgins pure, that as I gesse,
Were Children to that great Goddesse:
Their Princely port, their Comly grace,
Their pierles featur'd hand and face
Did schew them of Noble race:
But of their prudent skill to tell,
In Artes where in they did excell,
No earthly Toungue can do it well.

And as I gazed thus upon that strange and dreadfull sight,
I saw how that Experience did teach these Ladies right,
The Seven Artes Divine,
With desent discipline,
By divers rules and orders grave,
As she thought good for them to have.
But for to see how diligent
And buisily their time they spent
To learne those Artes most excellent,
The endlesse travells that they tooke
From place to place, from booke to booke,
Amazed me on them to looke.

For some in divers Languages did reason dispute,
And others some did sing and play on Organ, Harpe and Flute;
And some with Compasses found
All Measures square and round:
And some by Cyphering could tell
Infinite Summes and Numbers well:
And somes with Eloquence began
As Poets and Orators to scan
The Causes between Man and Man:
And some upon the Stars did gaze,
And other some sat in a Maze,
To judge of Seacrets that there was.

Soe that nothing created was under the Firmament,
That hath a Being or Life by any Element,
No Simple nor Compound
In all the World is found
Under the Sky, or Clouds that fly,
But they sought out the privity:
This Rocky Earth, this heavy Masse,
This Articke Virgin, this let not passe
To seeke the thing that therein was:
But put themselves in presse to creepe
Into the Center of the Deepe,
Where sundry Soules and Spirits doe sleepe.

This thing Experience gan prudently to debate,
With cheerfull looke and voyce full mylde, as it seemed to her state,
And soone decreed she
Of her benignity:
Not for their sundry paines I take,
But only for her Glory sake,
That all these ladies in a row
Should further of her Secrets know,
That from her Majesty did grow;
Wherewith to Councell called shee
A Lady grave of greate degree,
That named was Philosophy.

And after their discourse and talke, that Lady fell downe flatt
On hands & knees before the Queene in heaven where she satt.
And looking upon her face
Did say unto her grace:
Blessed be thou Experience,
Full mighty is thou Influence;
Thy wondrous workes records full well
In wordell of wordels where thou doest dwell,
In Earth, in Heaven, and in Hell;
That thou art now the very same,
That of Nothing All things did frame,
Wherefor now blessed be thy Name.

Wherewith the Heavens opened, and fiery flames did fall
Downe from the Throne of endles Joy and feate imperiall,
Where Angels infinite
Like glistering Starrs did fitt:
So pure and simple was the Light,
As all the World had burnt bright;
The flames and floods began to roare,
And did present their hidden store,
Of Spirits that sing for evermore,
All glory and magnificence,
All humble thankes and reverence
Be given to E X P E R I E N C E.

Then sylence fell upon the face of Heaven Christalline
Where all the Powers mustered full ready to encline;
To that most Sapient,
The high Omnipotent:
That said be it, and it was don,
Our Earth, Our Heaven were begun;
I am said it the most of might,
In worde of lyfe and eke in light.
I am Mercy and Judgement right,
The Depth is myne so is the Hight:
The Cold, the Hot, the Moyst, the Dry,
Where All in All is there am I.

What thing can tell when I began, or when I make an end?
Wherewith I wrought, and what I mought, or what I did intend?
To doe when I had done
The worke I had begun.
For when my Being was alone
One thing I made when there was none,
A Masse confused darkly clad
That in it selfe all Nature had
To form and shape the good and bad;
And then as Tyme began to fall,
It pleased me the same to call
The first Matter, Mother of all.

And from that Lumpe divided I foure sundry Elements,
Whom I commanded for to raigne in divers Regiments:
In Kinde they did agree,
But not in Quality.
Whose simple Substance I did take,
My seate invisible to make:
And of the Qualities compound,
I made the Starry Sky so round
With living Bodyes on the ground;
And blessed them infinitely,
With lyfe and long prosperity,
And bad them grow and Multiply.

Respecting these divided things so created by me,
Their light and lively spreading forth of them in their degree;
Retourning to the Masse,
Where there begining was,
And saw the refuse of the same,
How Voyd and Empty it became,
All darke, and nothing to remaine,
I put with wrath and great disdaine,
My only Curse therefor was no raygne;
For I the Author of all Light
Did banish Darkness from my sight,
And blessed all things that shined bright,

So that I mard nothing I made, for that which I made is still,
And so schalbe unto the end, only to worke my will:
One thing was first imployd,
And shall not be destroid,
It compasseth the World so round,
A Matter easy to be found:
And yet most hardest to come by:
A Secret of Secrets pardye,
That is most vile and least set by,
And it my Love and my Darling,
Conceived with all living thing,
And travells to the Worlds ending.

What neede have I of mans Devise of Peny or of Pound,
Of Gold or Silver, Lead or Tynn or Copper in the ground,
Iron or Silver Quick,
Whereat the blind to prick;
Of Cankered Corosives that rust,
By Salts and sulphurs all to dust?
Seeke out therefore my darling deare;
For unto me it is most neere,
My spouse my Love and my Compeare:
And unto it looke thou direct
My seaven Children long elect,
That all things else they might reject.

A Child begetting his owne Father, and bearing his Mother,
Killing himselfe to give lyfe, and light to all other:
Is yt that I do meane,
Most myld and most extreame.
Did not the Word that dwelt in me
Take forme and walked visibly;
And did not I then dwell in it,
That dwelt in me for to unite
Three powers in one seate to sit?
And the Experience did say
Now knowest thou all, heers lyes the Key,
And then she vanisht cleane away.

There with arose Phylosophy as one filled with grace,
Whose looks did shew that she had byne in some Heavenly place:
For oft she wipt her Eyes,
And oft she bowd her knees.
And oft she kist the Steps with dread,
Whereon Experience did tread;
And oft she cast he Head on high
And oft full low she cast her Eye
Experience for to espy:
But when she saw that she was gon,
And that her selfe was left alone:
I never hread thing make such mone.

FINIS.

The Hunting of the Greene Lyon

All haile to the noble Companie
Of true Students in holy Alchimie,
Whose noble practice doth hem teach
To vaile ther secrets with mistie speach;
Mought yt please your worshipfulnes
To heare my silly soothfastnes,
Of that practise which I have seene,
In hunting of the Lyon Greene:
And because you may be apaid,
That ys truth, that I have said;
And that you may for surety weene,
That I know well this Lyon Greene:
I pray your patience to attend
Till you see my short writt end,
Wherein Ile keepe my noble Masters rede,
Who while he lived stoode me in steede;
At his death he made me sweare hym to,
That all the secrets I schould never undoe
To no one Man, but even Spread a Cloude
Over my words and writes, and so it shroude,
That they which do this Art desire,
Should first know well to rule their Fyre:
For with good reason yt doth stand,
Swords to keep fro mad Mens hand:
Least th'one shoul, kill th'other burne,
Or either doe some fore shroud turne:
As some have done that I have seene,
As they did hunt thys Lyon Greene.
Whose collour doubtles ys not soe,
And that your wisdomes well doe know;
For no man lives that each hath seens
Upon foure feete a Lyon colloured Greene:
But our Lyon wanting maturity,
Is called greene for unripenes trust me,
And yet full quickly he can run,
And soone can overtake the Sun:
And suddainely can hym devoure,
If they be both shut in one towre:
And hym Eclipse that was so bryght,
And make thys redde to turne to whyte:
By vertue of hys crudytie,
And unripe humors whych in hym be,
And yet wything he hath such heate,
That whan he hath the Sun up eate,
He bringeth hym to more perfection,
Than ever he had by Natures direccion.
This Lyon maketh the Sun sith [fith] soone
To be joined to hys Sister the Moone:
By way of wedding a wonderous thing,
Thys Lyon should cause hem to begett a King:
And tis as strange that thys Kings food,
Can be nothing but thys Lyons Blood;
And tis as true that thys ys none other,
Than ys it the Kings Father and Mother.
A wonder a Lyon, and Sun and Moone,
All these three one deede have done:
The Lyon ys the Preist, and the Sun and Moone the wedd,
Yet they were both borene in the Lyons Bedd;
And yet thys King was begott by none other,
But by Sun and Moone hys owne Sister and Brother.
O noble Master of pardon I you pray,
Because I did well-neere bewray
The secret which to me ys so deare,
For I thought none but Brothers were here:
Than schould I make no doubt,
To have written plainley out,
But for my fealty I must keepe aye,
Ile turn my pen another way,
To speake under Benedicite
Of thys noble Company:
Wych now perceives by thys,
That I know what our Lyon ys.
Although in Science I am noe Clerke,
Yet I have labour'd in thys warke:
And truly wythouten any nay,
If you will listen to my lay:
Some thing thereby yow may finde,
That well may content your minde,
I will not sweare to make yow give credence,
For a Philosopher will find here in evidence,
Of the truth, and to men that be Lay,
I skill not greatly what they say.
For they weene that our Lyon ys
Common Quicksilver, but truly they miss:
And of thys purpose evermore shall fayle,
And spent hys Thrift to ltle availe,
That weeneth to warke hys wyll thereby,
Because he doth soe readely flie;
Therefore leave off ere thou begin,
Till thow know better what we meane;
Whych whan thow doest than wilt thou say
That I have tought thee a good lay,
In that whych I have said of thee before,
Wherefore lysten and marke well my lore.
Whan thow hast they Lyon with Sol and Luna well fedd,
And layd them clenly in their Bedd;
An easie heate they may not misse,
Till each the other well can kisse;
And that they shroude them in a skin,
Such as an Egg yelke lyeth in:
Than mus thow draw from thence away,
A right good secret withouten any nay:
Wych must serve to doe thee good'
For yt ys the Lyons Blood:
And therewith must be the King fedd,
When he ys risen from the dead:
But longe tyme it wilbe,
Or ere his death appear to thee;
And many a sleepe thow must lack,
Or thow hym see of Collour black.
Take heede yow move hym not with yre,
But keepe hym in an easy fyre;
Untill you see hym separate,
From hys vile Erth vituperate;
Wych wilbe black and light withall,
Much like the substance of a fusball:
Your magnet in the midst wilbe,
Of Collour faire and white trust me;
Then whan you you see all thys thing,
Your fire one degree increasing;
Untill yow well may se thereby,
Your matter to grow very dry:
The yt ys fit wythout delay,
The excrements be tane away;
Prepare a Bed most bryght and shine
For to lodge this young Chylde in:
And therein let hym alone lye,
Till he be thoughly dry;
Than ys tyme as I doe thinke,
After such drouth to give him drinke:
But thereof the truth to shew,
Is greate secret wekk I know;
For Philosophers of tyme old,
The secret of Imbibition never out tould;
To create Magnesia they made no care,
In their Bookes largely to declare;
But how to order it after hys creacion,
The left poore men without consolacion;
Soe many men thought they had had perfeccion,
But they found nothing in their Projeccion:
Therefore they mard what they had made before,
And of Alchimy they would have no more.
Thus do olde Fathers hide it from a Clearke,
Because in it consisteth the whole subtill warke;
Wych if ye lift of me to know,
I shall not faile the truth to shew.
Whan your pure matter in the glasse is fitt,
Before that you your vessell shitt;
A portion of your Lyons sweate
Must be given it for to eate:
And they must be grounded so well together,
That each fro other will flee now whither;
Then must you seale up your Glasse,
And in hys Furnace where he was,
You must set them there to dry.
Which being done then truly,
You must prepare like a good Phisitian,
For another Imbibition:
But evermore looke that you dry
Up all hys drinke, that none lye by,
For if yow make hym drink too free,
The longer will your workeing be,
And yf you let hym be too dry,
Than for thirst your Child may dye;
Wherefore the meane to hold is best,
Twixt overmoyst and too much rost [roft];
Six tymes thy Imbibtions make,
The seaventh that Saboath's rest betake:
Eight dayes twixt ilke day of the six,
To dry up moist and make it fix;
Then at the nynth tyme thy Glasse up seale,
And let him stand six weeks each deale:
With his heate tempered so right,
That Blackness passed he may grow white;
And so the seaventh weeke rest him still,
Till thow Ferment after thy will;
Which if thow wilt Ferment for Whyte,
Thereby thow gainst noe greate prifitt;
For I assure thee thow needest not dred,
To proceede with fire till all be Redd;
Than must thow proceede as did Philosophers old
To prepaire thy Ferment of peure Gold,
Which how to doe though secret that it be,
Yet will I truly teach it thee.
In the next Chapter as erst I did say,
That soe the truth finde yow may,
Therefore of Charity and for our Lords sake,
Let noe man from my writings take
One word, nor add thereto,
For certainly if that he doe,
He shall shew malice fro the which I am free,
Meaning truth and not subtilty;
Which I refer to the Judgement
Of those which ken the Philosophers intent:
Now listen me with all your might,
How to prepare your Ferment right.
O noble Worke of workes that God has wrought,
Whereby each thing of things are forth aye broght;
And fitted to their generacion,
By a noble Fermentacion;
Which Ferment must be of such a thing,
As was the workes begyning;
And if thow doe progresse aright
Whan thow hast brought the worke to whight;
And than to stay is thy intent,
Doe after my Comandement;
Worke Luna by her selfe alone,
With the blood of the Greene Lyon:
As earst thow didst in the begining,
And of three didst make one thing,
Orderly yeilding forth right,
Till thy Magnet schew full whyte;
Soe must thow warke all thy Ferment,
Both White and Red, else were yt shent.
Red by yt selfe and soe the White,
With the Lyons Blood must be deight;
And if thow wilt follow my lore,
Set in thy Ferment the same houre,
Of Sol for Redd, of Luna for White,
Each by himself let worke tight;
Soe shall thy Ferment be ready edress,
To feed the King with a good mess
Of meates that fitt for his digestion,
And well agreeing to his Complexion;
If he be of Collour White,
Feed hym than with Luna bright;
If his flesh be perfect Red,
Than with the Sun he must be fedd,
Your Ferment one fourth parte must be,
Into your Magnet made evenly,
And joyne hem warme and not cold,
For raw to ripe you may be bold
Have disagreement soe have heate and cold:
Therefore put hem warme into thy Glasse,
Then seale it up even as it was:
And Circle all till yt be wonne,
By passing degrees every each one:
Both black and whyte, and also redd,
Than of the Fire heere have noe dread;
For he will never dreade the fyre,
But ever abide thy desire.
And heere a secret to thee I must shew,
How to Multeplie that thow must know,
Or else it wilbe over micle paine
For thee to begin thy worke againe:
I say to thee that in noe fashion,
It's so well Multeplied as with continuall Firmentation:
And sure far it will be exalted at the last,
And in Projeccion ren full fast:
Therefor in the fyre keepe Firment alway,
That thy Medicine augment mayst aye;
For yf the maid doe not her leaven save, (crave;
Then of her Neighbours sche must needs goe
Or sche must stay till sche can make more,
Remember the Proverbe that store is no sore:
Thus have I tought thee a lesson, full of truth,
If thow be wicked therefore my heart is reuth:
Remember God hys blessing he can take,
Whan he hath given it, if abuse any you make,
For surely if thow be a Clerke,
Thow wilt finde trewth in thys werke:
But if so be that thow be lay,
And understond not what I say,
Keepe Councell then and leve thy Toy,
For it befitts no Lymmer loy,
To medle with such grete secresie:
As ys thys hygh Phylosophy.
My Councell take, for thow schalt finde it true,
Leave of seeking thys Lyon to pursue,
For hym to hunt that ys a prety wyle,
Yet by hys Craft he doth most Folke beguile,
And hem devour and leave hem full of care,
Wherefore I bidd thee to beware.
And Councell give thee as my frend,
And so my Hunting here I end.
Praying God that made us we may not myss
To dwell with hym in hys Hevenly blyss.