Consolatio

William Cullen Bryant: Life's bright promise withdrawn

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.

     --William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) in "Waiting by the Gate," Thirty Poems (1864)

Jayne Anne Phillips: People forget that a soldier's death goes on for years

People forget that a soldier's death goes on for years-- for a generation, really. They leave people behind.

     --Jayne Anne Phillips (1952- ) in Lark and Termite (2009)

Izumi Shikibu: Why did you vanish into the empty sky?

 
Why did you vanish
into the empty sky?
Even the fragile snow,
when it falls,
falls in this world.

               --Izumi Shikibu (和泉式部) b 976?, woman poet of the Heian period, Japan. Her daughter, also a gifted poet, died in childbirth. Translation by Jane Hirshfield and Mariki Aratani in The Ink Dark Moon..

などて君むなしき空に消えにけん淡雪だにもふればふる世に

F.W.H. Myers: The mountain-climber's grave

On a Grave at Grindelwald

Here let us leave him; for his shroud the snow,
for funeral-lamps he has the planets seven,
for a great sign the icy stair shall go
between the heights to heaven.

One moment stood he as the angels stand,
high in the stainless eminence of air;
the next, he was not, to his fatherland
translated unaware.

     --Frederick William Henry Myers (1843-1901)

James Joyce: Sad is his voice that calls me

Rain on Rahoon falls softly, softly falling,
where my dark lover lies.
Sad is his voice that calls me, sadly calling,
at grey moonrise.

Love, hear thou
how soft, how sad his voice is ever calling,
ever unanswered, and the dark rain falling,
then as now.

Dark to our hearts. O love, shall lie and cold
as his sad heart has lain
under the moongrey nettles, the black mould.
and muttering rain.

    --James Joyce (1882-1941). This poem was inspired by the true story of a young man, Michael Bodkin, who courted Joyce's future wife, Nora, before they met. Michael had tuberculosis but "left his house on the rainy night before Nora left Galway to sing beneath her window a song of sorrow and farewell. He died from exposure a short time later and was buried in Rahoon cemetery." [From For the Love of Ireland, ed. Susan Cahill]

Walt Whitman's nephew died young

In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, the nephew of the poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. She looked wonderingly at the spectacle of death, and then inquiringly into the old man's face. 'You don't know what it is, do you, my dear?' said he, and added, 'We don't, either.'

         --Mary Mapes Dodge (1831-1905), a friend of poet Walt Whitman's, in the preface to a poem.

I am far frae my hame, an' I'm weary aftenwhiles

I am far frae my hame, an’ I’m weary aftenwhiles,
For the langed for hame bringin’, an’ my Father’s welcome smiles;
An’ I’ll ne’er be fu’ content, until mine een do see
The gowden gates o’ Heav’n an’ my ain countrie.

The earth is fleck’d wi’ flowers, mony tinted, fresh an’ gay
The birdies warble blithely, for my Faither made them sae:
But these sights an’ these soun’s will as naething be to me,
When I hear the angels singin’ in my ain countrie.

I’ve His gude word o’ promise that some gladsome day, the King
To His ain royal palace his banished hame will bring;
Wi’een an’ wi’ hert rinnin’ owre, we shall see
The King in His beauty, in oor ain countrie.

Sae little noo I ken, o’ yon blessèd, bonnie place
I only ken it’s Hame, whaur we shall see His face,
It wad surely be eneuch for ever mair to be
In the glory o’ His presence, in oor ain countrie.

He is faithfu’ that hath promised, an He’ll surely come again,
He’ll keep His tryst wi’ me, at what oor I dinna ken;
But He bids me still to wait, an’ ready aye to be,
To gang at ony moment to my ain countrie.

       --Mary Demarest wrote this poem in 1861 when she was 23, after hearing the story of John MacDuff and his wife. The music was written by Ione Hanna.

Thanks to Cyberhymnal.

Netta Wilson: I lost my child today

I lost my child today
People came to weep and cry
as I just sat and stared, dry eyed
They struggled to find words to say
to try and make the pain go away
I walked the floor in disbelief
I lost my child today.

I lost my child last month
Most of the people went away
Some still call and some still stay
I wait to wake up from this dream
This can't be real, I want to scream
Yet everything is locked inside
God, help me, I want to die
I lost my child last month.

I lost my child last year
Now people who had came, have gone
I sit and struggle all day long
to bear the pain so deep inside
And now my friends just question Why?
Why does this mother not move on?
Just sits and sings the same old song
Good heavens, it has been so long
I lost my child last year.

Time has not moved on for me
The numbness it has disappeared
My eyes have now cried many tears
I see the look upon your face
"She must move on and leave this place"
Yet I am trapped right here in time
The song’s the same, as is the rhyme
I lost my child.........today

        --Netta Wilson, written in memory of her daughter Caprice Cara Wilson, who was killed in an auto accident (December 2, 1968 - November 20, 1994). Printed in the newsletter of The Compassionate Friends, Atlanta, May-June 2001

If you know how to reach Netta Wilson, please let me know.

Pan Yue: My drowning grief overflows my days

Time passes, winter and spring fade;
cold and heat suddenly flow and change.
My bride has returned to the sad underworld,
a heavy place, forever shut off by gloom.
Private wishes-- who can follow them?
Staying on here-- how can that help me?
I should respect the court orders,
turn my heart back to my early service.

When I look at our cottage, I think of her in it.
The women's rooms are empty of her.
Pen and ink still hold her traces.
The floating fragrance is not yet gone,
her portrait still hangs on the screen
almost as if she is still there.
I come back uneasy, startled, sad.
It's like birds in the northern forest,
settled as a pair, one early left alone.
It's like flatfish roaming the river,
one eye gone on the way.

The spring wind comes bringing a fissure of fate
At dawn the water drips off the eaves
In my bedroom-- how can I forget those times?
My drowning grief overflows my days.

How much time will there be like this?
I could bang on a pot, like Zhuangzi.

     --Chinese poet Pan Yue 潘岳 (247-300) was unusual for his time in writing publicly about his wife's death. This is my translation. You can read Kenneth Rexroth's translation of the same poem here.   

悼亡诗三首

荏苒冬春谢。寒暑忽流易。
之子归穷泉。重壤永幽隔。
私怀谁克从。淹留亦何益。
僶俛恭朝命。回心反初役。

望庐思其人。入室想所历。
帏屏无髣髴。翰墨有余迹。
流芳未及歇。遗挂犹在壁。
怅怳如或存。回遑忡惊惕。
如彼翰林鸟。双栖一朝只。
如彼游川鱼。比目中路析。

春风缘隟来。晨溜承檐滴。
寝息何时忘。沉忧日盈积。
庶几有时衰。庄缶犹可击。

Lamartine: Man has no harbor, Time has no shore

 
The Lake

Constantly pushed toward new coasts like this,
swept away into eternal night, with no return,
on the ocean of the ages-- can we never
throw down an anchor for a single day ?

O lake! the year is scarcely over,
and near the beloved waters she should have seen again,
look! I've come alone to sit on this stone
where you saw her sitting!

You  groaned like this under these deep rocks;
like this you broke on their torn flanks;
like this, the wind threw the foam from your waves
onto her adored feet.

One evening, do you remember? We were floating in silence;
on the waves, under the sky, there was nothing to hear far off
but the sound of oarsmen beating in rhythm
against your harmonious waves.

Suddenly in unearthly accents
echos fell from the enchanted shore:
the water listened, and the voice that I love
let these words fall:

"O time, suspend your flight! and you, happy hours,
suspend your race:
let us savor the fleet delights
of our fairest days!

"There are enough unhappy ones down here who beg you--
rush, rush for them;
take with their days the cares that devour them--
forget the happy people.

"But I ask in vain for a few more moments,
time escapes me and flees;
I say to this night: Be slower; and dawn
comes to melt the night.

"Let us love then, let us love! let us revel in
the flying hour-- hurry!
Man has no harbor, Time has no shore;
it flows, and we pass!"

Envious Time, can it be that these euphoric moments,
when love pours happiness on us in long surges,
fly away from us at the same speed
as the unhappy days?

What! Can't we at least hold on to the traces?
What! gone forever? What! completely lost?
The same Time that gave them, the same Time that erased them,
will never give them back to us?

Eternity, nothingness, past, dark pits,
what do you do with the days that you engulf?
Speak: will you give us back those uttermost ecstasies
that you snatch from us?

O lake! silent rocks! caves! dark forest!
you whom Time spares or can make young again,
beautiful Nature, keep, keep from that night
at least the memory!

May it be in your rest, may it be in your storms,
beautiful lake, and in the look of your smiling shoreline,
and in these black pines, and in these wild rocks
leaning over your waters.

May it be in the soft wind that shivers and passes,
in the sounds of your banks repeated by your banks,
in the star with a silver forehead that whitens your surface
with its soft clearness.

May the wind that groans, the reed that sighs,
may the soft scent of your fragrant air,
may everything that can be heard, seen or breathed
all say: they loved!

      --Alphonse de Lamartine (1790-1869) fell in love with Julie Charles, a married woman, after rescuing her from drowning in the Lake of Bourget, in the foothills of the Alps. He fell in love with her, but she died soon afterwards. Returning to the lake in 1817, he wrote this poem, his most famous.

Le Lac

Ainsi, toujours poussés vers de nouveaux rivages,
dans la nuit éternelle emportés sans retour,
ne pourrons-nous jamais sur l’océan des âges
jeter l’ancre un seul jour?

Ô lac! l’année à peine a fini sa carrière,
et près des flots chéris qu’elle devait revoir,
regarde! je viens seul m’asseoir sur cette pierre
où tu la vis s’asseoir!

Tu mugissais ainsi sous ces roches profondes;
ainsi tu te brisais sur leurs flancs déchirés;
ainsi le vent jetait l’écume de tes ondes
sur ses pieds adorés.

Un soir, t’en souvient-il? nous voguions en silence;
on n’entendait au loin, sur l’onde et sous les cieux,
que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadence
tes flots harmonieux.

Tout à coup des accents inconnus à la terre
du rivage charmé frappèrent les échos:
le flot fut attentif, et la voix qui m’est chère
laissa tomber ces mots:

« Ô temps, suspends ton vol! et vous, heures propices
suspendez votre cours:
laissez-nous savourer les rapides délices
des plus beaux de nos jours!

« Assez de malheureux ici-bas vous implorent,
coulez, coulez pour eux;
prenez avec leurs jours les soins qui les dévorent,
oubliez les heureux.

« Mais je demande en vain quelques moments encore,
le temps m’échappe et fuit;
je dis à cette nuit: Sois plus lente ; et l’aurore
va dissiper la nuit.

"Aimons donc, aimons donc ! de l’heure fugitive,
hâtons-nous, jouissons!
L’homme n’a point de port, le temps n’a point de rive ;
il coule, et nous passons!"

Temps jaloux, se peut-il que ces moments d’ivresse,
où l’amour à longs flots nous verse le bonheur,
s’envolent loin de nous de la même vitesse
que les jours de malheur?

Eh quoi! n’en pourrons-nous fixer au moins la trace?
Quoi! passés pour jamais? quoi ! tout entiers perdus?
Ce temps qui les donna, ce temps qui les efface,
ne nous les rendra plus?

Éternité, néant, passé, sombres abîmes,
que faites-vous des jours que vous engloutissez?
Parlez : nous rendrez-vous ces extases sublimes
que vous nous ravissez?

Ô lac! rochers muets! grottes! forêt obscure!
Vous, que le temps épargne ou qu’il peut rajeunir,
gardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature,
au moins le souvenir!

Qu’il soit dans ton repos, qu’il soit dans tes orages,
beau lac, et dans l’aspect de tes riants coteaux,
et dans ces noirs sapins, et dans ces rocs sauvages
qui pendent sur tes eaux.

Qu’il soit dans le zéphyr qui frémit et qui passe,
dans les bruits de tes bords par tes bords répétés,
dans l’astre au front d’argent qui blanchit ta surface
de ses molles clartés.

Que le vent qui gémit, le roseau qui soupire
que les parfums légers de ton air embaumé,
que tout ce qu’on entend, l’on voit ou l’on respire,
tout dise: Ils ont aimé!