Poem of the day

Lines on the French Revolution (from The Prelude)
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

O pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood
Upon our side, us who were strong in love!
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very Heaven! O times,
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once
The attraction of a country in romance!
When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights
When most intent on making of herself
A prime enchantress—to assist the work,
Which then was going forward in her name!
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole Earth,
The beauty wore of promise—that which sets
(As at some moments might not be unfelt
Among the bowers of Paradise itself)
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
What temper at the prospect did not wake
To happiness unthought of? The inert
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away!
They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,
The play-fellows of fancy, who had made
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength
Their ministers,—who in lordly wise had stirred
Among the grandest objects of the sense,
And dealt with whatsoever they found there
As if they had within some lurking right
To wield it;—they, too, who of gentle mood
Had watched all gentle motions, and to these
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild,
And in the region of their peaceful selves;—
Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty
Did both find helpers to their hearts’ desire,
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish,—
Were called upon to exercise their skill,
Not in Utopia,—subterranean fields,—
Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!
But in the very world, which is the world
Of all of us,—the place where, in the end,
We find our happiness, or not at all!

Poem of the day

The Peasant Poet
by John Clare (1793-1864)

He loved the brook’s soft sound,
      The swallow swimming by.
He loved the daisy-covered ground,
      The cloud-bedappled sky.
To him the dismal storm appeared
      The very voice of God;
And when the evening rack was reared
      Stood Moses with his rod.
And everything his eyes surveyed,
      The insects i’ the brake,
Were creatures God Almighty made,
      He loved them for His sake–
A silent man in life’s affairs,
      A thinker from a boy,
A peasant in his daily cares,
      A poet in his joy.

Poem of the day

Perception of an object costs
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Perception of an object costs
Precise the Object’s loss —
Perception in itself a Gain
Replying to its Price —
The Object Absolute — is nought —
Perception sets it fair
And then upbraids a Perfectness
That situates so far —

Game of the week

Generally speaking, playing bad openings against a grandmaster is a bad idea and usually will lead to an even quicker loss than a respectable opening would. While this is a quick loss, the fish in this game did have his chances (moves 7 and 9), but the end result was inevitable. By the way do you know what the word “grob” means in German? It’s fitting.

Poem of the day

Sonnet XXV from Regrets
by Joachim du Bellay (c. 1522-1560)

Malheureux l’an, le mois, le jour, l’heure, et le poinct,
Et malheureuse soit la flatteuse esperance,
Quand pour venir ici j’abandonnay la France:
La France, et mon Anjou dont le desir me poingt.

Vraiment d’un bon oyseau guidé je ne fus point,
Et mon cœur me donnoit assez signifiance,
Que le ciel estoit plein de mauvaise influence,
Et que Mars estoit lors à Saturne conjoint.

Cent fois le bon advis lors m’en voulut distraire,
Mais toujours le destin me tiroit au contraire:
Et si mon desir n’eust aveuglé ma raison,

N’estoit-ce pas assez pour rompre mon voyage,
Quand sur le seuil de l’huis, d’un sinistre presage,
Je me blessay le pied sortant de ma maison?

Poem of the day

The Parterre
by Edward Henry Palmer (1840-1882)

I don’t know any greatest treat
As sit him in a gay parterre,
And sniff one up the perfume sweet
Of every roses buttoning there.

It only want my charming miss
Who make to blush the self red rose;
Oh! I have envy of to kiss
The end’s tip of her splendid nose.

Oh! I have envy of to be
What grass ’neath her pantoffle push,
And too much happy seemeth me
The margaret which her vestige crush.

But I will meet her nose at nose,
And take occasion for her hairs,
And indicate her all my woes,
That she in fine agree my prayers.

Poem of the day

Von der Freude
by Johann Nikolaus Götz (1721-1781)

Sage, sprach ich, holde Freude!
Sage doch, was fliehst du so?
Hat man dich, so fliehst du wieder!
Niemals wird man deiner froh.

Danke, sprach sie, dem Verhängnis!
Alle Götter lieben mich;
Wenn ich ohne Flügel wäre,
Sie behielten mich für sich.