Quietude
Van Gogh, Brooke, and Other Purveyors of Wisdom
Cornfield with Crows by Vincent van Gogh
Youth in Age
ONCE I was part of the music I heard
On the boughs or sweet between earth and sky;
For joy of the beating of wings on high
My heart shot into the breast of the bird.
I hear it now and I see it fly,
And a life in wrinkles again is stirred;
My heart shoots into the breast of the bird,
As it will for sheer love till the last long sigh.
—George Meredith
Intérieur blanc/White Interior by Pierre Bonnard
The Long Small Room
THE long small room that showed willows in the west
Narrowed up to the end the fireplace filled,
Although not wide. I liked it. No one guessed
What need or accident made them so build.
Only the moon, the mouse, and the sparrow peeped
In from the ivy round the casement thick.
Of all they saw and heard there they shall keep
The tale for the old ivy and older brick.
When I look back I am like moon, sparrow, and mouse
That witnessed what they could never understand
Or alter or prevent in the dark house.
One thing remains the same—this is my right hand
Crawling crab-like over the clean white page,
Resting awhile each morning on the pillow,
Then once more starting to crawl on towards age.
The hundred last leaves stream upon the willow.
—Edward Thomas
Sleeping Man with a Book by Yehuda Pen
The Busy Heart
NOW that we've done our best and worst, and parted,
I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend.
(O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted)
I'll think of Love in books, Love without end;
Women with child, content; and old men sleeping;
And wet strong ploughlands, scarred for certain grain;
And babes that weep, and so forget their weeping;
And the young heavens, forgetful after rain;
And evening hush, broken by homing wings;
And Song's nobility, and Wisdom holy,
That live, we dead. I would think of a thousand things,
Lovely and lovable, and taste them slowly,
One after one, like tasting a sweet food.
I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
—Rupert Brooke
Rain by Vincent van Gogh
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