Sweet

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright!
The bridal of the earth and sky—
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season’d timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

 —-George Herbert

In George Herbert there is poetry enough and to spare: it is the household bread of his being. With a conscience tender as a child’s, almost diseased in its tenderness, and a heart loving as a woman’s, his intellect is none the less powerful. Its movements are as the sword-play of an alert, poised. well-knit, strong-wristed fencer with the rapier, in which the skill impresses one more than the force, while without the force the skill would be valueless, even hurtful, to its possessor. There is a graceful humour with it occasionally, even in his most serious poems adding much to their charm.  —George MacDonald

Excruciatingly Slow

You’d think I had a dial-up connection, the way mine’s been acting over the last couple of days. Posting the Sunday hymn yesterday was painful. I thought I might post this week’s question from the WLC today, but linking to each verse in the proofs is proving that I am not as patient as I had previously assumed.

 

So let’s do a fall photo instead, assuming of course, that I can even upload one.

 

 

 Click for larger view

Copyright © 2006-2007, Andrew Stark. All rights reserved. 

 

Aha! It worked. Eventually.

 

This is Lake Labarge, the location, we’re told, of the cremation of Sam McGee. If you don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, here is a link to a YouTube video of a rather interesting (slow, but not excurciatingly so) recitation of the Robert Service poem.

Sin's Round

Sorry I am, my God, sorry I am,
That my offences course it in a ring.
My thoughts are working like a busy flame,
Until their cockatrice they hatch and bring:
And when they once have perfected their draughts,¹
My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts.

My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts,
Which spit it forth like the Sicilian hill.²
They vent their wares, and pass them with their faults,
And by their breathing ventilate the ill.
But words suffice not, where are lewd intentions:
My hands do join to finish the inventions.

My hands do join to finish the inventions:
And so my sins ascend three stories high,
As Babel grew, before there were dissentions.
Let ill deeds loiter not: for they supply
New thoughts of sinning: wherefore, to my shame,
Sorry I am, my God, sorry I am.

—-George Herbert 

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¹At Christian Classics Ethereal Library they define draught as

[d]rawing or pulling. The act of pulling, as with horses…. The act of pulling a net to catch fish or birds. Also the catch from the net.

I’d think it more likely means “a current of air,” since, for one thing, the word is not used as a verb here, but a noun, and for another, Herbert is referring to starting a fire. What say ye?

² According to CCEL, this refers to Mount Etna.

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George Herbert poetry posted previously: 

• COLOSSIANS III. 3.
• The Flower
• THE SONNE
• SINNE
• CHRISTMAS
• LOVE-JOY
• PRAYER