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An Eulogy of Poetry

    Since my youth I was interested in Poetry, which is a form of literature allied to another art, music.

    Sir Roger Scruton (1943-2017) one time said that Beauty has to be appreciated because it adds consolation to our sad thoughts and jollity to our happy feelings, I experienced that especially now, when the end of my life is at sight,

    That is the reason why I am adding a beautiful poem from the beginnings of the XIX century,

    I hope ths will increase sensibility to all members of this forum. Not all is money or welfare in this life.


    "The Last Rose of Summer" is a poem by the Irish poet Thomas Moore. He wrote it in 1805, while staying at Jenkinstown Castle in County Kilkenny, Ireland, where he was said to have been inspired by a specimen of Rosa 'Old Blush'.[1] The poem is set to a traditional tune called "Aisling an Óigfhear", or "The Young Man's Dream",[2] which was transcribed by Edward Bunting in 1792, based on a performance by harper Denis Hempson (Donnchadh Ó hAmhsaigh) at the Belfast Harp Festival.[3] The poem and the tune together were published in December 1813 in volume 5 of Thomas Moore's A Selection of Irish Melodies. The original piano accompaniment was written by John Andrew Stevenson, several other arrangements followed in the 19th and 20th centuries.



    Tis the last rose of summer,


    Left blooming alone;


    All her lovely companions


    Are faded and gone;


    No flower of her kindred,


    No rosebud is nigh,


    To reflect back her blushes,


    Or give sigh for sigh.



    I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!


    To pine on the stem;


    Since the lovely are sleeping,


    Go, sleep thou with them.


    Thus kindly I scatter,


    Thy leaves o'er the bed,


    Where thy mates of the garden


    Lie scentless and dead.



    So soon may I follow,


    When friendships decay,


    And from Love's shining circle


    The gems drop away.


    When true hearts lie withered,


    And fond ones are flown,


    Oh! who would inhabit


    This bleak world alone?

  • Jump to the most helpful post

    Absolutely lovely professor. The meter is cadenced and flows forward, our final seasons are something to embrace and relish. Bravo you brilliant amazing scholar, we are truly blessed and humbled to experience your presence. I'm an empath, I've worked in palliative care in a Alzheimer's care facility. Love and soul. As John said, all you need is love. Thank you. Death is not morbid or depressing, it is a natural as birth. Transitive, liberating. Following is my own eulogy. By the amazing W.H. Auden.


    Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

    Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

    Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

    Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.



    Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

    Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.

    Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

    Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.



    He was my North, my South, my East and West,

    My working week and my Sunday rest,

    My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

    I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.



    The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

    Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,

    Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

    For nothing now can ever come to any good.



    Embrace your humaness, love.

    Dear Mr Gary Kypher

    Thank you for your response and of your opinion about me. I am only a researcher of beauty and nothing more.

    I appreciate all languages, especially those from Western Europe (French, English, Italian, German) Annd poetry as well.

    You can find beauty even in sad situations. Example: The sculpture of Mary the mother of Christ in "La pieta" by Michelangelo.

    pieta-vat.jpg?resize=640%2C641&ssl=1


    There are other poems not as sad as the aforasaid quoted, that brings jolllity added to happiness.

    For example that poem written by Lawrence the Magnificent:

    Quant'è bella giovinezza, che si sfugge tuttavia! Chi vuol esser lieto, sia: di doman non c'è certezza.

    English translation: How beautiful is being youth, however it passes quickly. That one who wish to be happy, be it, the incoming days have no certitude

    When we stop to marvel at something beautiful, and to realize what level of mastery was required to create it. Carved, chiseled from marble, one should be in absolute reverence. I've been recently looking at the paintings of Albrecht Durer. Pure genius. Again Carlos, thanks for reminding us to look and reflect. The vicissitudes of life and the joy of remembering our youth.

    Rare as hens teeth unfortunately. Recently I've been attempting to give away some of my books, poor sods don't read books. ADHD rules the day, somnabulist walking around with eyes wide shut. I couldn't imagine living a life of such ignorance. There is a term I heard describing the cultural decay of modernity, Disneyfication. The brilliant French philosopher Guy Debord's book 'The Society of the Spectacle' pretty much fleshes out what he calls simulacra and simulation. Bread and circus for the ignorant masses. As the Talking Heads song pointed out, no sense of harmony no sense of time..... :gandalf:

    I can put on my mask and join the circus, its were my sophomoric side emerges and my sarcasm helps me stick my foot in my mouth. Usually takes at least three pints of the dark stuff governor, but boy can I step in it.

    Just to enjoy a more light poem, even a small poem, I am copying a verse which appeared in the once famous Baedeker guides, circa 1900, which adds jollity and pleasure of life.

    It says:


    Qui pense a Voyager


    Doit soucis oublier


    Des l’aube se lever


    Ne pas trop se charger


    D’un pas egal marcher


    Et savoir ecouter!



    Which means:


    Who thinks of traveling


    must worries forget


    From dawn to rise up


    Do not overload


    With an equal step walk


    And know how to listen!

    Quote from Rice

    Excellent advice, Carlos . And like most things, it sounds much nicer in French - -

    The translation of poetry from one language to other Is extremely difficult.

    Rhyme Is lost, only an outstanding linguist expert in both languages can keep rhyme undamaged.

    Quote from Carlos

    The translation of poetry from one language to other Is extremely difficult.

    Rhyme Is lost, only an outstanding linguist expert in both languages can keep rhyme undamaged.

    We cannot say that a language Is More beautiful than other. All depends no the person who is speaking.

    Quote from Carlos

    Edited once, last by Carlos: Merged a post created by Carlos into this post. ().

    Thanks Carlos. What do you know of Manuel Padrono? I don't have access to any university data banks. And I recently discovered the artist Armand Guillaumin, how did I missed him baffles me. I'm usually the turtle, slow, deliberate, plodding. Pissaro, Cezanne, Guillaumin. They were intimate friends. The first two I've studied. I digress. Thanks for reminding us to stop and listen. Now back to my book. :gandalf:

    Quote from Rice

    Excellent advice, Carlos . And like most things, it sounds much nicer in French - -

    Look what beautiful is English language in a poem of Robet Frost:


    Whose woods these are I think I know.

    His house is in the village though;

    He will not see me stopping here

    To watch his woods fill up with snow.

    My little horse must think it queer

    To stop without a farmhouse near

    Between the woods and frozen lake

    The darkest evening of the year.

    He gives his harness bells a shake

    To ask if there is some mistake.

    The only other sound's the sweep

    Of easy wind and downy flake.

    The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

    But I have promises to keep,

    And miles to go before I sleep,

    And miles to go before I sleep.

    Quote from Rice

    A wonderful poem.

    Yes, and this is a proof that all languages, if used with the purpose of beauty, are equally valued.

    Now I propose to go to patriotic poems.

    Jorge Luis Borges was a sober poet when referring to his homeland. In fact, he was very eurocentrica rather that latin american like Vargas LLosa or Garcia Marquez. But as universialist he tried to be, was able to write a moving poem in the sequicentennial of out Independence.

    He wrote:


    ODE WRITTEN IN 1966

    English translation



    No one is the Fatherland.

    Not even the rider,

    which tall in the dawn of a desert plaza,

    Rules a bronze steed through the times,


    Nor the others ones who glance from the marble,

    Nor those which lavished their warrior ashes,

    Through the fields of America

    Or they left a verse or a feat

    Or the memory of a thorough life

    In the righteous exercise of the days.

    No one is the Fatherland. Not even the symbols.


    No one is the Fatherland. Not even time

    Laden with battles, of swords and exodus

    And of the slow population of regions

    That  touches the morn and the twilight

    And of faces which are aging

    In the mirrors that are blurred

    And of sustained anonymous agonies

    That last until dawn

    And from the web of  rain

    Upon the dark gardens


    The Fatherland, my friends, is a perpetual deed

    As the perpetual world (If the Eternal Spectator

    would stop dreaming,

    as a white and abrupt lightning

    His forgetfulness

    Would fulminate us)


    No one is the Fatherland,

    But we all must be

    Worthy of the old oath

    That lent out those gentlemen

    To be what they ignored, argentineans,

    To be what they will be for the fact

    To have pledged in that old house


    We are the future of those men,

    The substantiation of those who died

    Our duty is the glorious burden

    That to our shadow bequeath those shadows

    That we must save.


    No one is the Fatherland,

    But we all are the Fatherland.

    May flame, ceaseless, in my chest and in yours

    That limpid, mysterious fire.


    Jorge Luis Borges (born in Buenos Aires 1898, died in Geneva 1987)

    Written in occasion of the 150th anniversary of the Argentine declaration of Independence


    And now, to be gentle with many UK members of this forum who appreciate beauty, I am quoting a beautiful hymn, that was written in music by Gustav Holst, a Victorian musician. I like it too.


    I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above

    Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love

    the love that asks no questions, the love that stands the test

    That lays upon the altar, the dearest and the best

    the love that never falters, the love that pays the price

    the love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice


    I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above

    Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love

    the love that asks no questions, the love that stands the test

    That lays upon the altar, the dearest and the best

    the love that never falters, the love that pays the price

    the love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice



    And there's another country, I've heard of long ago

    Most dear to them that loves her, most great to them that know

    We may not count her armies, we may not see her King

    Her fortress is a faithful heart, her pride is suffering

    And soul by soul and silently her shining bounds increase

    And her ways are ways of gentleness and all her paths are peace


    That is what I like.

    No patrioterism, only understatement of a deep feeling about each one's homeland.








    Here's another interesting poem by Alabama3. Yes beauty is pleasing, outrage is liberating. Martin L. King said any man not willing to fight for what he believes is right is no man at all! :gandalf:


    "Woody Guthrie"


    Another psychopath in Iowa, loadin' up another round

    While the NRA in Columbine hunt Marilyn Manson down

    Powder in the Pentagon, cruel letters in the mail

    Some KKK white supremacist, cookin' up a dose of race-hate


    I tell you now


    I don't need no country

    I don't fly no flag

    I cut no slack for the Union Jack

    Stars and stripes have got me jet-lagged, yeah


    I don't need no country

    I don't fly no flag

    I cut no slack for the Union Jack

    Stars and stripes have got me jet-lagged, yeah


    Some baby in Afghanistan, cryin' for his mama now

    While the BNP scare refugees senseless up in Oldham town

    Hypocrites in Downing Street pourin' petrol on the flame

    Satpal cries, asks Paddy "Why do we always get the blame?"


    I tell you now


    I don't need no country

    I don't fly no flag

    I cut no slack for the Union Jack

    Stars and stripes have got me jet-lagged, yeah


    I don't need no country

    I don't fly no flag

    I cut no slack for the Union Jack

    Stars and stripes have got me jet-lagged, yeah


    Sing a song for the asylum seeker

    For the frightened baby on some foreign beach

    You better bang a gong

    And pray they reach safe harbour


    Some mother in Jakarta, lays down her weary head

    In some free trade zone compound, where they work you till you're dead

    Hunger stalks the corridors, famine and disease

    I seen the multinationals walkin' hand in hand with globalising marketeers


    I tell you now


    I don't need no country

    I don't fly no flag

    I cut no slack for the Union Jack

    Stars and stripes have got me jet-lagged, yeah


    I don't need no country

    I don't fly no flag

    I cut no slack for the Union Jack

    Stars and stripes have got me jet-lagged, yeah


    I don't need no country

    I don't fly no flag

    I cut no slack for the Union Jack

    Stars and stripes have got me jet-lagged, yeah


    I don't need no country

    I don't fly no flag

    I cut no slack for the Union Jack

    Stars and stripes have got me jet-lagged, yeah


    Sing a song for the asylum seeker

    For the frightened baby on some foreign beach

    You better bang a gong

    And pray they reach safe harbour


    You better sing a song for the asylum seeker

    For the frightened baby on some foreign beach

    You better bang a gong

    And pray they reach safe harbour


    Safe harbour

    A safe harbour