Perseverance

My God, the poor expressions of my LoveWhich warm these lines, and serve them up to theeAre so, as for the present I did move,Or rather as thou movedst me.

But what shall issue, whether these my wordsShall help another, but my judgement be;As a burst fowling-piece doth save the birdsBut kill the man, is sealed with thee.

For who can tell, though thou hast died to winAnd wed my soul in glorious paradise;Whether my many crimes and use of sinMay yet forbid the banes and bliss.

Only my soul hangs on thy promisesWith face and hands clinging unto thy breast,Clinging and crying, crying without cease,Thou art my rock, thou art my rest.

—George Herbert, “Perseverance” (from the Williams Manuscript)

This has been a frustrating and challenging year. Blow after blow. I am not the most optimistic of persons, but notwithstanding my own tendencies — it has been a struggle. I am working hard to not give up.

Auden for Holy Week

In 1943:

If a man who is in love is asked what gives his beloved such unique value for him over all other persons, he can only answer: “She is the fulfillment of all my dreams.” If the questioner has undergone any similar experience, the subjectivity of this answer causes no offense because the lover makes no claim that others should feel the same. He not only admits that “she is beautiful” means “she is beautiful for me but not necessarily for you” but glories in this admission.

If a man who professes himself a Christian is asked why he believes Jesus to be the Christ, his position is much more difficult, since he cannot believe this without meaning that all who believe otherwise are in error, yet at the same time he can give a no more objective answer than the lover: “I believe because He fulfills none of my dreams, because He is in every respect the opposite of what He would be if I could have made Him in my own image.”

Thus, if a Christian is asked: “Why Jesus and not Socrates or Buddha or Confucious or Mahomet?” perhaps all he can say is: “None of the others arouse all sides of my being to cry ‘Crucify Him’.”

http://www.mbird.com/2016/03/jesus-fulfilled-none-of-w-h-audens-dreams/

Spenser tears

Yesterday in teaching, I came across these lines in Book 1 Canto 8 and 9 of Spenser’s Faerie Queene. They made me emotional.

I think the students were taken aback by my reaction.

Therewith an hollow, dreary, murmuring voyce These piteous plaints and dolours did resound; O who is that, which brings me happy choyce Of death, that here lye dying euery stound, Yet liue perforce in balefull darkenesse bound? For now three Moones haue cha[n]ged thrice their hew, And haue beene thrice hid vnderneath the ground, Since I the heauens chearefull face did vew,O welcome thou, that doest of death bring tydings trew.

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Whom when his Lady saw, to him she ran With hasty ioy: to see him made her glad, And sad to view his visage pale and wan, Who earst in flowres of freshest youth was clad. Tho when her well of teares she wasted had, She said, Ah dearest Lord, what euill starre On you hath fround, and pourd his influence bad, That of your selfe ye thus berobbed arre,And this misseeming hew your manly looks doth marre?

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Then do no further goe, no further stray, But here lie downe, and to thy rest betake, Th'ill to preuent, that life ensewen may. For what hath life, that may it loued make, And giues not rather cause it to forsake? Feare, sicknesse, age, losse, labour, sorrow, strife, Paine, hunger, cold, that makes the hart to quake; And euer fickle fortune rageth rife,All which, and thousands mo do make a loathsome life.

Thou wretched man, of death hast greatest need, If in true ballance thou wilt weigh thy state: For neuer knight, that dared warlike deede, More lucklesse disauentures did amate: Witnesse the dongeon deepe, wherein of late Thy life shut vp, for death so oft did call; And though good lucke prolonged hath thy date, Yet death then, would the like mishaps forestall,Into the which hereafter thou maiest happen fall.

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Come, come away, fraile, seely, fleshly wight, Ne let vaine words bewitch thy manly hart, Ne diuelish thoughts dismay thy constant spright. In heauenly mercies hast thou not a part? Why shouldst thou then despeire, that chosen art? Where iustice growes, there grows eke greater grace, The which doth quench the brond of hellish smart, And that accurst hand-writing doth deface,Arise, Sir knight arise, and leaue this cursed place.