sweet sorrow

I won't have time to post an entry before I fly out tomorrow. So here is how I envision my departure, through the words of William Wordsworth:

Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?
Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,
Festively she puts forth in trim array;
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
What boots the inquiry? Let her travel where she may,
She finds familiar names, a beaten way
Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?
And, almost as it was when ships were rare,
(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there
Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,
Of the old Sea some reverential fear,
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!

Stepping Westward - by William Wordsworth

"What, you are stepping westward?" -- "Yea."

'Twould be a wildish destiny

If we who thus together roam

In a strange land and far from home,

Were in this place the guests of Chance :

Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,

Though home or shelter he had none,

With such a sky to lead him on ?

The dewy ground was dark and cold ;

Behind, all gloomy to behold ;

And stepping westward seemed to be

A kind of heavenly destiny :

I liked the greeting ; 'twas a sound

Of something without place or bound ;

And seemed to give me spiritual right

To travel through that region bright.

The voice was soft, and she who spake

Was walking by her native lake :

The salutation had to me

The very sound of courtesy :

Its power was felt ; and while my eye
Was fixed upon the glowing Sky,

The echo of the voice enwrought

A human sweetness with the thought

Of travelling through the world that lay

Before me in my endless way.

(Photo: Wings in the Wind by A. E. Marty)

Words of Worth

Last night one of the units in our complex caught on fire. Nobody was hurt, and the damage was minimal, but it had me considering which of my possessions were worth rescuing.

The only thing I could think of? My little old book of Wordsworth's poetry. Published somewhere between the late 1800s and the mid 1900s, and written circa 1790-1845, I bought it for $2 at a Lifeline Bookfest and it's now one of my dearest companions.

It really hit me that most of our "stuff" is so meaningless and unnecessary. All I need is Neil and a few lines of verse, and the world is mine.

Wings have we -- and as far as we can go
We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low.
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know
Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness grow.
-- From 'Personal Talk' by William Wordsworth