O World, thou choosest not the better part! It's not wisdom to be only wise - And on the inward vision close the eyes, But it is wisdom to believe the heart. Columbus found a world, and had no chart, Save one that faith deciphered in the skies; To trust the soul's invincible surmise Was all his science and his only art. ~ Our knowledge is a torch of smoky pine That lights the pathway but one step ahead Across a void of mystery and dread. Bid, then, the tender light of faith to shine By which alone the mortal heart is led Unto the thinking of the thought divine. ~George Santayana
O MARTYRED Spirit of this helpless Whole, Who dost by pain for tyranny atone, And in the star, the atom, and the stone, Purgest the primal guilt, and in the soul; Rich but in grief, thou dost thy wealth unroll, And givest of thy substance to thine own, Mingling the love, the laughter, and the groan In the large hollow of the heaven's bowl. `~ Fill full my cup; the dregs and honeyed brim I take from thy just hand, more worthy love For sweetening not the draught for me or him. What in myself I am, that let me prove; Relent not for my feeble prayer, nor dim The burning of thine altar for my hymn. ~George Santayana
The muffled syllables that Nature speaks Fill us with deeper longing for her word; She hides a meaning that the spirit seeks, She makes a sweeter music than is heard. A hidden light illumines all our seeing, An unknown love enchants our solitude. We feel and know that from the depths of being Exhales an infinite, a perfect good. Though the heart wear the garment of its sorrow And be not happy like a naked star, Yet from the thought of peace some peace we borrow, Some rapture from the rapture felt afar. Our heart strings are too coarse for Nature's fingers Deftly to quicken as she pulses on, And the harsh tremor that among them lingers Will into sweeter silence die anon. We catch the broken prelude and suggestion Of things unuttered, needing to be sung; We know the burden of them, and their question Lies heavy on the heart, nor finds a tongue. Till haply, lightning through the storm of ages, Our sullen secret flash from sky to sky, Glowing in some diviner poet's pages And swelling into rapture from this sigh. ~George Santayana
I Would I Might Forget That I am I
I would I might forget that I am I, And break the heavy chain that binds me fast, Whose links about myself my deeds have cast. What in the body's tomb doth buried lie Is boundless; 'tis the spirit of the sky, Lord of the future, guardian of the past, And soon must forth, to know his own at last. In his large life to live, I fain would die. Happy the dumb beast, hungering for food, But calling not his suffering his own; Blessed the angel, gazing on all good, But knowing not he sits upon a throne; Wretched the mortal, pondering his mood, And doomed to know his aching heart alone. ~George Santayana
There May Be Chaos Still Around the World
There may be chaos still around the world, This little world that in my thinking lies; For mine own bosom is the paradise Where all my life's fair visions are unfurled. Within my nature's shell I slumber curled, Unmindful of the changing outer skies, Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies, Or some old Cronos from his throne is hurled. I heed them not; or if the subtle night Haunt me with deities I never saw, I soon mine eyelid's drowsy curtain draw To hide their myriad faces from my sight. They threat in vain; the whirlwind cannot awe A happy snow-flake dancing in the flaw. ~George Santayana
Slow and Reluctant Was the Long Descent
SLOW and reluctant was the long descent, With many farewell pious looks behind, And dumb misgivings where the path might wind, And questionings of nature, as I went. The greener branches that above me bent, The broadening valleys, quieted by mind, To the fair reasons of the Spring inclined And to the Summer's tender argument. But sometimes, as revolving night descended, And in my childish heart the new song ended, I lay down, full of longing, on the steep; And, haunting still the lonely way I wended, Into my dreams the ancient sorrow blended, And with these holy echoes charmed my sleep ~George Santayana
NOT human art, but living gods alone Can fashion beauties that by changing live,-- Her buds to spring, his fruits to autumn give, To earth her fountains in her heart of stone; But these in their begetting are o'erthrown, Nor may the sentenced minutes find reprieve; And summer in the blush of joy must grieve To shed his flaunting crown of petals blown. We to our works may not impart our breath, Nor them with shifting light of life array; We show but what one happy moment saith; Yet may our hands immortalize the day When life was sweet, and save from utter death The sacred past that should not pass away. ~George Santayana
