midsummer

And won thy love doing thee injuries And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back And laid the love-juice on some true-love’s sight (And yet a place of high respect with me) And left sweet Pyramus translated there And never did desire to see thee more And (which is more than all these boasts can be) And now they never meet in grove or green And then end life when I end loyalty And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin And never, since the middle summer’s spring And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be And grows to something…

of errors

So like the other As could not be Before the always wind-obeying deep His wished light I labored of a love to see. My soul should sue as advocate for thee. I to the world Unseen, inquisitive, confounds So doubtfully. Not feel his meaning: What ruins are In me that can be found— This sure uncertainty, the offered fallacy. Look sweet. Speak fair. Become disloyalty. Labor you to wander in an unknown field In sap-consuming winter’s drizzled snow Where time’s deformèd hand Have written strange defeatures In my face, the ground of my defeatures. I hazarded the loss of whom…

cymbeline

Whom best I love I cross. I swerve. I stand on fire. Meal and bran, contempt and grace. To commix With winds that sailors rail at, in simple and low things To prince it much. Flow, flow, you heavenly blessings: Royalty unlearned, honor untaught; our fangled world, His radiant roof; the government of patience As chaste as unsunned snow——The same dead thing alive. Whom we reckon ourselves to be, so we do. Fear no more… I’ll drink the words. As many inches As you have oceans. Fear no more, the dream’s here still. Firing it only here, even when I…

two gentle

Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness And on a love-book pray for my success Till I have found each letter in the letter Whereon this month I have been hammering. Repair me with thy presence. Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. Not being tried and tutored in the world And partly seeing you are beautified How could he see his way to seek out you? Hope is a lover’s staff, walk hence with that. I cannot leave to love, and yet I do. I am impatient of my tarriance. Didst thou but know the inly touch of love…

two noble

Weak as we are, and almost breathless swim In this deep water. But touch the ground For us no longer time than a dove’s Motion when the head’s plucked off, O, my petition was Set down in ice, which by hot grief uncandied Melts into drops; so sorrow, wanting form, Is pressed with deeper matter. O woe, You cannot read it there; there through my tears, Like wrinkled pebbles in a glass stream. Pray you, say nothing, pray you, Who cannot feel nor see the rain, being in it. Let the event, that never-erring arbitrator, tell us What we know…

the wordes moote be cosyn to the dede

Now have I toold you shortly in a clause, Th’estaat, th’array, the nombre, and eek the cause Why that assembled was this compaignye In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrye That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle. But now is tyme to yow for to telle How that we baren us that ilke nyght, Whan we were in that hostelrie alyght; And after wol I telle of our viage And all the remenaunt of oure pilgrimage. But first I pray yow, of youre curteisye, That ye n’arette it nat my vileynye, Thogh that I pleynly speke in this mateere, To…

language rules

“…Furthermore, all correspondence referring to the matter was subject to rigid “language rules,” and, except in the reports from the Einsatzgruppen, it is rare to find documents in which such bald words as “extermination,” “liquidation,” or “killing” occur. The prescribed code names for killing were “final solution,” “evacuation” (Aussiedlung), and “special treatment” (Sonderbehandlung); deportation—unless it involved Jews directed to Theresienstadt, the “old people’s ghetto” for privileged Jews, in which case it was called “change of residence”—received the names of “resettlement” (Umsiedlung) and “labor in the East” (Arbeitseinsatz im Osten), the point of these latter names being that Jews were indeed…

end / And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me … fall away / Like water from ye

+++ BUCKINGHAM: …You few that loved meAnd dare be bold to weep for Buckingham,His noble friends and fellows, whom to leaveIs only bitter to him, only dying:Go with me like good angels to my endAnd, as the long divorce of steel falls on me, Make of your prayers one sweet sacrificeAnd lift my soul to heaven. … Heaven has an end in all. Yet, you that hear me,This from a  dying man receive as certain:Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels,Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friendsAnd give your hearts to, when they once perceiveThe…

again

+++ FAUSTUS: Was this the face that launched a thousand shipsAnd burnt the topless towers of Ilium?Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.[They kiss]Her lips sucks forth my soul. See where it flies!Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.[They kiss again]Here will I dwell, for heaven be in these lips… –Dr Faustus A-text, 5.1 +++ ROMEO: If I profane with my unworthiest handThis holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready standTo smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. JULIET: Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,Which mannerly devotion shows in this;For saints…

correct correction

+++ O Lord! I dread: and that I did not dread I me repent; and evermore desire Thee Thee to dread. I open here, and spread My fault to thee… O Lord! As I have thee both pray’d, and pray, (Although I Thee be no alteration. But that we men, like as ourselves, we say, Measuring thy justice by our mutation) Chastise me not, O Lord! In thy furor, Nor me correct in wrathful castigation For that thy arrows of fear, of terror, Of sword, of sickness, of famine, and of fire, Stick deep in me: I, lo! From mine…

From Heidegger’s The Origin of the Work of Art. Hofstadter translation

The artwork lets us know what shoes are in truth. Art a circle; circles in this circle. Artworks shipped like coal from the Ruhr, Hölderlin’s hymns packed in soldier’s knapsacks during the First World War. Beethoven’s quartets lie in storerooms like potatoes in a cellar. The far-spreading, ever-uniform furrows of the field swept by a raw wind. A thingly thing-being, the loneliness of the field-path as evening falls. A workly work-being, the silent call of the fallow desolation of the wintry field. The certainty of bread. The menace of death. We hesitate to call God a hankering after the irrational,…