Dirge

Listen to:

Dirge (:43)

by Edna St. Vincent Millay 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

     Boys and girls that held her dear,

       Do your weeping now;

     All you loved of her lies here.

     Brought to earth the arrogant brow,

       And the withering tongue

     Chastened; do your weeping now.

     Sing whatever songs are sung,

       Wind whatever wreath,

     For a playmate perished young,

     For a spirit spent in death.

     Boys and girls that held her dear,

     All you loved of her lies here.

Nature

Listen to:

Nature (:56)

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

      As a fond mother when the day is o'er

      Leads by the hand her little child to bed,

      Half willing, half reluctant to be led,

      And leave his broken playthings on the floor,

      Still gazing at them through the open door,

      Nor wholly reassured and comforted

      By promises of others in their stead

      Which, though more splendid, may not please him more.

      So Nature deals with us and takes away

      Our playthings one by one, and by the hand

      Leads us to rest so gently, that we go,

      Scarce knowing if we wished to go or stay,

      Being too full of sleep to understand

      How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

What Riches Have You

Listen to:

What Riches Have You (:59)

  by George Santayana  

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

SONNET 29

                                                            

What riches have you that you deem me poor,

Or what large comfort that you call me sad?

Tell me what makes you so exceeding glad:

Is your earth happy or your heaven sure?

I hope for heaven, since the stars endure

And bring such tidings as our fathers had.

I know no deeper doubt to make me mad,

I need no brighter love to keep me pure.

To me the faiths of old are daily bread;

I bless their hope, I bless their will to save,

 And my deep heart still meaneth what they said.

It makes me happy that the soul is brave,

And, being so much kinsman to the dead,

I walk contented to the peopled grave.

The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls

Listen to:

The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls (1:06)

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

  The tide rises, the tide falls,

  The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;

  Along the sea-sands damp and brown

  The traveller hastens toward the town,

    And the tide rises, the tide falls.

  Darkness settles on roofs and walls,

  But the sea in the darkness calls and calls;

  The little waves, with their soft, white hands,

  Efface the footprints in the sands,

    And the tide rises, the tide falls.

  The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls

  Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;

  The day returns, but nevermore

  Returns the traveller to the shore,

    And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Michael Robartes bids his Beloved be at Peace

Listen to:

Michael Robartes bids his Beloved be at Peace (1:15)

by William Butler Yeats 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake,

Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;

The North unfolds above them clinging, creeping night,

The East her hidden joy before the morning break,

The West weeps in pale dew and sighs passing away,

The South is pouring down roses of crimson fire:

O vanity of Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire,

The Horses of Disaster plunge in the heavy clay:

Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat

Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast,

Drowning love’s lonely hour in deep twilight of rest,

And hiding their tossing manes and their tumultuous feet.

from The Wind Among the Reeds (1899)

This Living Hand

Listen to:

This Living Hand (:41)

 by John Keats 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

This living hand, now warm and capable

Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold

And in the icy silence of the tomb,

So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood

So in my veins red life might stream again,

And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is—

I hold it towards you.

                                                 

Young Love

Listen to:

Young Love (1:35)

by Andrew Marvell 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Andrew Marvell was born this day in 1621

Come, little infant, love me now,

   While thine unsuspected years

Clear thine agèd father’s brow

   From cold jealousy and fears.

Pretty, surely, ’twere to see

   By young love old time beguiled,

While our sportings are as free

   As the nurse’s with the child.

Common beauties stay fifteen;

   Such as yours should swifter move,

Whose fair blossoms are too green

   Yet for lust, but not for love.

Love as much the snowy lamb,

   Or the wanton kid, does prize,

As the lusty bull or ram,

   For his morning sacrifice.

Now then love me: time may take

   Thee before thy time away:

Of this need we’ll virtue make,

   And learn love before we may.

So we win of doubtful fate;

   And if good she to us meant,

We that good shall antedate,

   Or, if ill, that ill prevent.

Thus as kingdoms, frustrating

   Other titles to their crown,

In the cradle crown their king,

   So all foreign claims to drown,

So, to make all rivals vain,

   Now I crown thee with my love:

Crown me with thy love again,

   And we both shall monarchs prove.

Edward Fitzgerald, translator of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, was born this day in 1809

Listen to quatrains from Edward Fitzgerald's translation of Omar Khayyam on Eclectic Rhapsodics:

May 2, 2015

February 12, 2016

February 25, 2016

How do I love thee?

Listen to:

How do I love thee? (1:13)

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Sonnets from the Portuguese 43: 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

At Last

Listen to:

At Last (1:10)

by Christina Rossetti 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Many have sung of love a root of bane:
       While to my mind a root of balm it is,
    For love at length breeds love; sufficient bliss
For life and death and rising up again.
Surely when light of Heaven makes all things plain,
    Love will grow plain with all its mysteries;
    Nor shall we need to fetch from over seas
Wisdom or wealth or pleasure safe from pain.
Love in our borders, love within our heart,
    Love all in all, we then shall bide at rest,
    Ended for ever life’s unending quest,
         Ended for ever effort, change and fear:
Love all in all; —no more that better part
         Purchased, but at the cost of all things here.

Of the Last Verses in the Book

Listen to:

Of the Last Verses in the Book (1:25)

by Edmund Waller 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Edmund Waller was born this day in 1606

When we for age could neither read nor write,

The subject made us able to indite.

The soul, with nobler resolutions deckt,

The body stooping, does herself erect:

No mortal parts are requisite to raise

Her, that unbodied can her Maker praise.

The seas are quiet, when the winds give o’er,

So calm are we, when passions are no more:

For then we know how vain it was to boast

Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.

Clouds of affection from our younger eyes

Conceal that emptiness, which age descries.

The soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and decay’d,

Lets in new light through chinks that time has made;

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become

As they draw near to their eternal home:

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,

That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Rubaiyat - Verses LXVI-LXIX

Listen to:

Rubaiyat - Verses LXVI-LXIX (1:13)

by Omar Khayyam 

translated by Edward Fitzgerald

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

    LXVI

    I sent my Soul through the Invisible,

    Some letter of that After-life to spell:

    And by and by my Soul return'd to me,

    And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"

    LXVII

    Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,

    And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,

    Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,

    So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

    LXVIII

    We are no other than a moving row

    Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go

    Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held

    In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

    LXIX

    But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays

    Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;

    Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,

    And one by one back in the Closet lays.

If You Refuse Me Once

Listen to:

If You Refuse Me Once (3:05)

by Sir John Suckling 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Sir John Suckling was born this day in 1609 in Middlesex, England.

If you refuse me once, and think again,

            I will complain.

You are deceiv’d, love is no work of art,

            It must be got and born,

            Not made and worn,

By every one that hath a heart.

Or do you think they more than once can die,

            Whom you deny?

Who tell you of a thousand deaths a day,

            Like the old poets feign

            And tell the pain

They met, but in the common way?

Or do you think ’t too soon to yield,

            And quit the field?

Nor is that right, they yield that first entreat;

            Once one may crave for love,

            But more would prove

This heart too little, that too great.

Oh that I were all soul, that I might prove

      For you as fit a love

As you are for an angel; for I know,

None but pure spirits are fit loves for you.

You are all ethereal; there’s in you no dross,

      Nor any part that’s gross.

Your coarsest part is like a curious lawn,

The vestal relics for a covering drawn.

Your other parts, part of the purest fire

      That e’er Heav’n did inspire,

Makes every thought that is refin’d by it

A quintessence of goodness and of wit.

Thus have your raptures reach’d to that degree

      In love’s philosophy,

That you can figure to yourself a fire

Void of all heat, a love without desire.

Nor in divinity do you go less;

      You think, and you profess,

That souls may have a plenitude of joy,

Although their bodies meet not to employ.

But I must needs confess, I do not find

      The motions of my mind

So purified as yet, but at the best

My body claims in them an interest.

I hold that perfect joy makes all our parts

      As joyful as our hearts.

Our senses tell us, if we please not them,

Our love is but a dotage or a dream.

How shall we then agree? you may descend,

      But will not, to my end.

I fain would tune my fancy to your key,

But cannot reach to that obstructed way.

There rests but this, that whilst we sorrow here,

      Our bodies may draw near;

And, when no more their joys they can extend,

Then let our souls begin where they did end.

To the Immortal Memory of the Halibut

Listen to:

To the Immortal Memory of the Halibut (1:47)

by William Cowper 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

To the Immortal Memory of the Halibut

on Which I Dined This Day

[Written in a letter to Unwin April 25, 1784.  Published by

     Johnson, 1824.]

Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued

Thy pastime? when wast thou an egg new-spawn'd,

Lost in th' immensity of ocean's waste?

Roar as they might, the overbearing winds

That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe—

And in thy minikin and embryo state,

Attach'd to the firm leaf of some salt weed,

Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack'd

The joints of many a stout and gallant bark,

And whelm'd them in the unexplor'd abyss.

Indebted to no magnet and no chart,

Nor under guidance of the polar fire,

Thou wast a voyager on many coasts,

Grazing at large in meadows submarine,

Where flat Batavia just emerging peeps

Above the brine,—where Caledonia's rocks

Beat back the surge,—and where Hibernia shoots

Her wondrous causeway far into the main.

—Wherever thou hast fed, thou little thought'st,

And I not more, that I should feed on thee.

Peace therefore, and good health, and much good fish,

To him who sent thee! and success, as oft

As it descends into the billowy gulph,

To the same drag that caught thee!—Fare thee well!

Thy lot thy brethern of the slimy fin

Would envy, could they know that thou wast doom'd

To feed a bard, and to be prais'd in verse.

Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog

Listen to:

Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog (1:52)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

A Memorial to Boatswain

Newstead Abbey, November 30, 1808.

Near this spot

Are deposited the Remains of one

Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,

Strength without Insolence,

Courage without Ferocity,

And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.

This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery

If inscribed over human ashes,

Is but a just tribute to the Memory of

BOATSWAIN, a DOG

Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,

And died at Newstead, Nov 18th, 1808.

When some proud son of man returns to earth,

Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,

And storied urns record who rest below:

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,

Not what he was, but what he should have been:

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,

The first to welcome, foremost to defend,

Whose honest heart is still his master's own,

Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,

Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,

Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:

While man, vain insect!  hopes to be forgiven,

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.

Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,

Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!

By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.

Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,

Pass on --- it honours none you wish to mourn:

To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;

I never knew but one, --- and here he lies.

The Flight

Listen to:

The Flight (:58)

by Lloyd Mifflin

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Upon a cloud among the stars we stood.

The angel raised his hand and looked and said,

"Which world, of all yon starry myriad

Shall we make wing to?" The still solitude

Became a harp whereon his voice and mood

Made spheral music round his haloed head.

I spake—for then I had not long been dead—

"Let me look round upon the vasts, and brood

A moment on these orbs ere I decide ...

What is yon lower star that beauteous shines

And with soft splendor now incarnadines

Our wings?—There would I go and there abide."

He smiled as one who some child's thought divines:

"That is the world where yesternight you died."

Clouds

Listen to:

Clouds (1:08)

by Rupert Brooke 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

   

Down the blue night the unending columns press
In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,
Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow
Up to the white moon's hidden loveliness.

Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,
And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,
As who would pray good for the world, but know
Their benediction empty as they bless.

They say that the Dead die not, but remain
Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.
I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,
In wise majestic melancholy train,
And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,
And men, coming and going on the earth.

Invictus

Listen to:

Invictus (:55)

by William Ernest Henley 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Out of the night that covers me,

      Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

      I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

      Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

      Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

      How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

      I am the captain of my soul.

Winter

Listen to:

Winter (2:17)

by Samuel Johnson 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

No more the morn with tepid rays

Unfolds the flower of various hue; 

Noon spreads no more the genial blaze,

Nor gentle eve distills the dew.

The lingering hours prolong the night,

Usurping darkness shares the day;

Her mists restrain the force of light,

And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway.

By gloomy twilight half revealed,

With sighs we view the hoary hill,

The leafless wood, the naked field,

The snow-topp'd cot, the frozen rill.

No music warbles through the grove,

No vivid colours paint the plain;

No more with devious steps I rove

Through verdant paths, now sought in vain.

Aloud the driving tempest roars;

Congeal'd impetuous showers descend;

Haste, close the window, bar the doors,

Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend.

In nature's aid let art supply

With light and heat my little sphere;

Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high;

Light up a constellation here.

Let music sound the voice of joy!

Or mirth repeat the jocund tale;

Let love his wanton wiles employ,

And o'er the season wine prevail.

Yet time life's dreary winter brings,

When mirth's gay tale shall please no more;

Nor music charm, though Stella sings;

Nor love, nor wine the spring restore.

Catch the, O! catch the transient hour,

Improve each moment as it flies;

Life's a short Summer - man a flower,

He dies - alas! how soon he dies!

Of English Verse

Listen to:

Of English Verse (1:49)

by Edmund Waller 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

     Poets may boast, as safely vain,
     Their works shall with the world remain:
     Both bound together, live or die,
     The verses and the prophecy.

     But who can hope his line should long
     Last, in a daily-changing tongue?
     While they are new, envy prevails;
     And as that dies our language fails.

     When architects have done their part,
     The matter may betray their art:
     Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,
     Soon brings a well-built palace down.

     Poets, that lasting marble seek,
     Must carve in Latin or in Greek:
     We write in sand, our language grows,
     And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.

     Chaucer his sense can only boast,
     The glory of his numbers lost!
     Years have defac't his matchless strain,
     And yet he did not sing in vain.

     The beauties which adorn'd that age,
     The shining subjects of his rage,
     Hoping they should immortal prove,
     Rewarded with success his love.

     This was the gen'rous poet's scope,
     And all an English pen can hope;
     To make the fair approve his flame,
     That can so far extend their fame.

     Verse thus design'd has no ill fate,
     If it arrive but at the date
     Of fading beauty, if it prove
     But as long-liv'd as present love.

Let Your Soul Stand Cool

Listen to:

Let Your Soul Stand Cool (1:06)

by Walt Whitman

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

   

I have said that the soul is not more than the body,

And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,

And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is,

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own

    funeral drest in his shroud,

And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,

And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the

    learning of all times,

And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it

    may become a hero,

And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd universe,

And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed

    before a million universes.