Game of the week

Poem of the day

Die Nacht
by Georg Büchner (1813-1837)

Niedersinkt des Tages goldner Wagen,
Und die stille Nacht schwebt leis’ herauf,
Stillt mit sanfter Hand des Herzens Klagen,
Bringt uns Ruh im schweren Lebenslauf.

Ruhe gießt sie in das Herz des Müden,
Der ermattet auf der Pilgerbahn,
Bringt ihm wieder seinen stillen Frieden,
Den des Schicksals rauhe Hand ihm nahm.

Ruhig schlummernd liegen alle Wesen,
Feiernd schließet sich das Heiligtum,
Tiefe Stille herrscht im weiten Reiche,
Alles schweigt im öden Kreis herum.

Und der Mond schwebt hoch am klaren Äther,
Geußt sein sanftes Silberlicht herab;
Und die Sternlein funkeln in der Ferne
Schau’nd herab auf Leben und auf Grab.

Willkommen Mond, willkommen sanfter Bote
Der Ruhe in dem rauhen Erdental,
Verkündiger von Gottes Lieb und Gnade,
Des Schirmers in Gefahr und Mühesal.

Willkommen Sterne, seid gegrüßt ihr Zeugen
Der Allmacht Gottes der die Welten lenkt,
Der unter allen Myriaden Wesen
Auch meiner voll von Lieb’ und Gnade denkt.

Ja, heil’ger Gott, du bist der Herr der Welten,
Du hast den Sonnenball emporgetürmt,
Hast den Planeten ihre Bahn bezeichnet,
Du bist es, der das All mit Allmacht schirmt.

Unendlicher, den keine Räume fassen,
Erhabener, den Keines Geist begreift,
Allgütiger, den alle Welten preisen,
Erbarmender, der Sündern Gnade beut!

Erlöse gnädig uns von allem Übel,
Vergib uns liebend jede Missetat,
Laß wandeln uns auf deines Sohnes Wege,
Und siegen über Tod und über Grab.

Poem of the day

by Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)

Is it thy will that I should wax and wane,
      Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,
And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain
      Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day?

Is it thy will—Love that I love so well—
      That my Soul’s House should be a tortured spot
Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell
      The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?

Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,
      And sell ambition at the common mart,
And let dull failure be my vestiture,
      And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.

Perchance it may be better so—at least
      I have not made my heart a heart of stone,
Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,
      Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.

Many a man hath done so; sought to fence
      In straitened bonds the soul that should be free,
Trodden the dusty road of common sense,
      While all the forest sang of liberty.

Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight
      Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air,
To where the steep untrodden mountain height
      Caught the last tresses of the Sun God’s hair.

Or how the little flower he trod upon,
      The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,
Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun
      Content if once its leaves were aureoled.

But surely it is something to have been
      The best beloved for a little while,
To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen
      His purple wings flit once across thy smile.

Ay! though the gorged asp of passion feed
      On my boy’s heart, yet have I burst the bars,
Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed
      The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!

It’s nice to see the little guys getting some attention for once

So many missions to the planets and big moons. So few to the asteroids.

SwRI?s Levison, Olkin lead the mission to Jupiter?s Trojan asteroids. NASA?s Lucy spacecraft is encapsulated in a protective fairing atop an Atlas V rocket, awaiting its 23-day launch window to open on October 16. All is go for the Southwest Research Institute-led mission to begin, as the spacecraf

Poem of the day

The Solitary Reaper
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
because today is International Day of Rural Women

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

Poem of the day

Care-Charmer Sleep
by Samuel Daniel (1562-1619)

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born:
Relieve my languish, and restore the light,
With dark forgetting of my cares, return;
And let the day be time enough to mourn
The shipwreck of my ill-adventur’d youth:
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
Without the torment of the night’s untruth.
Cease dreams, th’ imagery of our day-desires,
To model forth the passions of the morrow;
Never let rising sun approve you liars,
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow.
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain;
And never wake to feel the day’s disdain.