We alone can devalue gold by not caring if it falls or rises in the marketplace. Wherever there is gold there is a chain, you know, and if your chain is gold so much the worse for you.
Feathers, shells and sea-shaped stones are all as rare.
This could be our revolution: to love what is plentiful as much as what is scarce.
Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light, In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright.
Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations. Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies like a snowflake falling on water. Below us, some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death, snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn back into the little system of his care. All night, the cities, like shimmering novas, tug with bright streets at lonely lights like his.
An illustration for Goethe's poem "Erlkönig", pen on paper (A4). Extra credit in hell for those who can trace the Devil.
Na'ama Shulman
Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp'd in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.
My son, wherefore seek'st thou thy face thus to hide?
Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?
My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain.
"Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me!
For many a game, I will play there with thee;
On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold."
My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?
Be calm, dearest child, 'tis thy fancy deceives;
'Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves.
"Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care;
My daughters by night their glad festival keep,
They'll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep."
My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?
My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
'Tis the aged grey willows deceiving thy sight.
"I love thee, I'm charm'd by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou'rt unwilling, then force I'll employ."
My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
For sorely, the Erl-King has hurt me at last.
The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child;
He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,
The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.
Goethe
(Edgar Alfred Bowring's translation)
***
A história do Erlkönig deriva da tradicional balada dinamarquesa Elveskud: O poema de Goethe foi inspirado na tradução de Johann Gottfried Herder de uma variante da balada (Danmarks gamle Folkeviser 47B, da edição de 1695 de Peter Syv) para alemão como Erlkönigs Tochter (“A Filha do Rei Erl”) na sua colecção de canções populares, Stimmen der Völker in Liedern (publicada em 1778).
O poema de Goethe, por sua vez, inspirou o jovem Schubert, que o musicou.
This weeping apparition hides my eyes and tears For shadows I will never see again. Past the light, my shadow proceeds before me growing tallerwith each soggy, aching step, Until the dark consumes my empty spirit Passing in the night.
Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs? Where is your tribal memory? Sirs, in that gray vault. The sea. The sea has locked them up. The sea is History
L’Auvergne est une de mes patries. Car j’ai plusieurs patries ; l’une au bord d’un grand fleuve, au coin même du désert et de la rue Tantah, l’autre au bord d’un autre désert, l’autre au bord d’un autre grand fleuve (je dois être né sous le signe de l’eau), d’autres enfin sur des montagnes et des lacs. J’habite de loin toutes mes patries, c’est ainsi qu’on les habite bien (De près, elles perdent à l’usage). Elles sont chaudes en hiver, elles sont fraîches en été, le vin s’y garde bon dans des maisons obscures et les jets d’eau refroidissent la mosaïque ; le soir de petites lumières s’allument au bord de l’eau et le bonheur habite dans les vignes au-dessus desquelles, le jour, tourne un papillon blanc. L’Auvergne n’a pas de grands fleuves, mais elle n’est que ruissellement, cascades, bouillons, lacs de cratères. J’y vis nu dans l’eau du torrent en compagnie d’Henri Pourrat. Il m’attend sur le bord, et une fois que je suis sec nous reprenons la conversation juste à l’endroit où nous l’avions laissée.
(Alexandre Vialatte, Plaisirs de l’Auvergne – Opéra, janvier 1952)
And if a man could see The horse's magic face, He would tear out his feeble tongue And give it to the horse. Indeed The magic horse deserves a tongue!
Nikolai Zabolotsk
A cabeça de cavalo dos Médicis Riccardi é uma parte sobrevivente de um grupo escultórico equestre helenístico de tamanho natural. Século IV a.C., atualmente em exposição no Museu Arqueológico Nacional de Florença.
