Slow and Reluctant Was the Long Descent

SLOW and reluctant was the long descent,

With many farewell pious looks behind,

And dumb misgivings where the path might wind,

And questionings of nature, as I went.

The greener branches that above me bent,

The broadening valleys, quieted by mind,

To the fair reasons of the Spring inclined

And to the Summer's tender argument.

But sometimes, as revolving night descended,

And in my childish heart the new song ended,

I lay down, full of longing, on the steep;

And, haunting still the lonely way I wended,

Into my dreams the ancient sorrow blended,

And with these holy echoes charmed my sleep.

George Santayana

I Would I Might Forget That I am I

I WOULD I might forget that I am I,

And break the heavy chain that binds me fast,

Whose links about myself my deeds have cast.

What in the body's tomb doth buried lie

Is boundless; 'tis the spirit of the sky,

Lord of the future, guardian of the past,

And soon must forth, to know his own at last.

In his large life to live, I fain would die.

Happy the dumb beast, hungering for food,

But calling not his suffering his own;

Blessed the angel, gazing on all good,

But knowing not he sits upon a throne;

Wretched the mortal, pondering his mood,

And doomed to know his aching heart alone.

George Santayana

There May Be Chaos Still Around the World

THERE may be chaos still around the world,

This little world that in my thinking lies;

For mine own bosom is the paradise

Where all my life's fair visions are unfurled.

Within my nature's shell I slumber curled,

Unmindful of the changing outer skies,

Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies,

Or some old Cronos from his throne is hurled.

I heed them not; or if the subtle night

Haunt me with deities I never saw,

I soon mine eyelid's drowsy curtain draw

To hide their myriad faces from my sight.

They threat in vain; the whirlwind cannot awe

A happy snow-flake dancing in the flaw.

George Santayana

The Power of Art

NOT human art, but living gods alone

Can fashion beauties that by changing live,--

Her buds to spring, his fruits to autumn give,

To earth her fountains in her heart of stone;

But these in their begetting are o'erthrown,

Nor may the sentenced minutes find reprieve;

And summer in the blush of joy must grieve

To shed his flaunting crown of petals blown.

We to our works may not impart our breath,

Nor them with shifting light of life array;

We show but what one happy moment saith;

Yet may our hands immortalize the day

When life was sweet, and save from utter death

The sacred past that should not pass away.

George Santayana

Ode: Slowly the Black Earth Gains

SLOWLY the black earth gains upon the yellow,

And the caked hill-side is ribbed soft with furrows.

Turn now again, with voice and staff, my ploughman,

Guiding thy oxen.

Lift the great ploughshare, clear the stones and brambles,

Plant it the deeper, with thy foot upon it,

Uprooting all the flowering weeds that bring not

Food to thy children.

Patience is good for man and beast, and labour

Hardens to sorrow and the frost of winter.

Turn then again, in the brave hope of harvest,

Singing to heaven.

George Santayana

Decima

SILENT daisies out of reach,

Maidens of the starry grass,

Gazing on me as I pass

With a look too wise for speech,

Teach me resignation,--teach

Patience to the barren clod,

As, above your happier sod,

Bending to the wind's caress,

You--unplucked, alas!--no less

Sweetly manifest the god.

George Santayana

A Toast

SEE this bowl of purple wine,

Life-blood of the lusty vine!

All the warmth of summer suns

In the vintage liquid runs,

All the glow of winter nights

Plays about its jewel lights,

Thoughts of time when love was young

Lurk its ruby drops among,

And its deepest depths are dyed

With delight of friendship tried.

Worthy offering, I ween,

For a god or for a queen,

Is the draught I pour to thee,--

Comfort of all misery,

Single friend of the forlorn,

Haven of all beings born,

Hope when trouble wakes at night,

And when naught delights, delight.

Holy Death, I drink to thee;

Do not part my friends and me.

Take this gift, which for a night

Puts dull leaden care to flight,

Thou who takest grief away

For a night and for a day.

George Santayana

Premonition

THE muffled syllables that Nature speaks

Fill us with deeper longing for her word;

She hides a meaning that the spirit seeks,

She makes a sweeter music than is heard.

A hidden light illumines all our seeing,

An unknown love enchants our solitude.

We feel and know that from the depths of being

Exhales an infinite, a perfect good.

Though the heart wear the garment of its sorrow

And be not happy like a naked star,

Yet from the thought of peace some peace we borrow,

Some rapture from the rapture felt afar.

Our heart strings are too coarse for Nature's fingers

Deftly to quicken as she pulses on,

And the harsh tremor that among them lingers

Will into sweeter silence die anon.

We catch the broken prelude and suggestion

Of things unuttered, needing to be sung;

We know the burden of them, and their question

Lies heavy on the heart, nor finds a tongue.

Till haply, lightning through the storm of ages,

Our sullen secret flash from sky to sky,

Glowing in some diviner poet's pages

And swelling into rapture from this sigh.

George Santayana

Mont Brevent

O DWELLER in the valley, lift thine eyes

To where, above the drift of cloud, the stone

Endures in silence, and to God alone

Upturns its furrowed visage, and is wise.

There yet is being, far from all that dies,

And beauty where no mortal maketh moan,

Where larger planets swim the liquid zone,

And wider spaces stretch to calmer skies.

Only a little way above the plain

Is snow eternal. Round the mountain's knees

Hovers the fury of the wind and rain.

Look up, and teach thy noble heart to cease

From endless labour. There is perfect peace

Only a little way above thy pain.

George Santayana