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Contemplative, Rolfe Humphries, in English Clear filters

ContemplativeRolfe Humphries

The Divorce

Light, of two elements the unison, Of air and fire, where one and one are one, Performs the office of division, Enacts that earth from water sunder, sever, Keeping their separate properties forever, Hill, valley, mountain; ocean, lake, and river. To each its own identity and sign, Texture and color, boundary and line, Motion and rest, the lift, the flow, the shine, The melody, magnificence and mirth All more intense, all given brighter worth By this divorce of water and of earth. O friends and witnesses, rejoice, approve The single happiness in which they move; Give them your fondest blessing, and your love. What one made two, nothing will render one:
ContemplativeRolfe Humphries

The Statue

Short, husky, black and brown with dust and sweat The quarry men, whose bar and sledge have pried The marble loose, stand back to watch it drawn Down the rough skidroad from the mountainside, Out of its first exposure, heading toward A new erosion, where a mind, an eye, And something called imagination, wait To wear it down, before the hands dare try To grasp and lift the chisel and the maul, One man's complete employment now, — observe How stone is dressed in nakedness, how steel With sharp straight edge brings out the bevelled curve. One man does this, who stops at times, and frowns, Or hums himself a little tune that goes, When all goes well, The more the marble wastes,
ContemplativeRolfe Humphries

The Offering of the Heart

Against a somber background, blue as midnight, More blank and dark than cloud, as black as storm, The almost moving leaves are almost golden, The light is almost warm. Seated, a lady, wearing a cloak with ermine Holds on her hand, correctly gloved and bent, A falcon, without feathered hood or jesses; Her gaze appears intent On what her hound, good little dog, is doing Around her ankles, left front paw in air, Regardless of the three white careless rabbits— He does not see them there, Or turn, as does the falcon, toward the gallant, The gentleman, more elegant than smart, Who comes, in crimson cloak with ermine lining, And offers her a heart,
ContemplativeRolfe Humphries

Vae Victis

The Romans have invaded us again, — That decadent nation, with the melancholy Under the ostentation and the bronze, Misgivers, dressed in attitudes of scorn, Corrupted by their own imposing folly, The bands and banners, cruelty and games, Victorious over green batallions, Summer's luxurious easy army slain. They line our highways, confiscate our corn, Possess our fields and set our woods in flames. Each year they come, each year they flash and shine, Proud in imperial purple, orange, gold, Maroon, magenta, madder, carmine, wine, Vermilion, umber; arrogant and bold. Each year, some morning finds them driven forth In panic by a rumor from the north,
ContemplativeRolfe Humphries

Arbor Song

The vine on the trellis Weaves under and over, Under and over, weaves, Over and under— To the constant frame the ever inconstant wonder, Looseness of leaves And cling of the tendril twining, O intricate! O rare! Even space, even air, Part of the order and becomingness, Blossom as grace-note, all, Whether moving or still, So perfectly designed That the sight is the sound, No more and no less, Beautiful, musical.
ContemplativeRolfe Humphries

Fin de Siècle

All that I wander through, so bright, so modern, So quick with novelty, so very wise, So dernier cri, so ne plus ultra, this, All this, all this, I come to realize, All of a sudden, is not mine at all, Is not my Now, but some one else's Then. There will be other women, other men, Appropriating this, still bright, but small, Garish and glazed, of colored post-card size, So little that it goes from hand to hand For the delight of those who know and praise Our customs, our décor and these our days: "How irresistible! How charming!" so Runs their gay comment on their long ago. Secure, and, what is even better, chic, These lovers of the chromium antique
ContemplativeRolfe Humphries

The Islands

The stars, in dissolution burning, Burn out, as we do, late or soon, Islands of fire, the fixed, the turning, Whose morning and whose afternoon Are half a trillion years, a span As brief, or long, as his for man. My son, when dark comes down, comes down To the south lawn to study these: Knowing from books the proper noun For what, to me, are mysteries, He finds the one he looks for, there, Above the apple-tree, Altair. Altair in August. April gone Four months — or is it only hours? — Since, resting on the same south lawn, I lay and looked at yellow flowers
ContemplativeRolfe Humphries

Little Fugue

Wind running over the reeds like water Reeds like sea-weed under the wind Bending and rising, under and over — So, in the wind of Time, the mind Seems to bow and recover Under the run of the river. Like running water over the reeds Wind is pouring its weight of air: The way of Time, like a stream, With rush and rest proceeds, A rush, and a rest, and a stir, And moods are water-weeds. The bend and the rise, the rest and the rush, The rush and the reed, and the wind running over, The weigh and the wait of Time Under the run of the water
ContemplativeRolfe Humphries

Merioneth

In that sweet, mild western air Castle stones are russet fire, Wind goes gentle, water clear, A minute is a quarter hour. Golden broom on mountainside, Golden gorse along the road, Rowan, oak, and alder shade Lower ground with globe of cloud. While their afternoon wears on, Old men, sitting in the sun, Warm on ankle bone and shin, Do not envy any man. Slanting over shire and shore, Cader Idris, Traeth Mawr, Light is rich, though folk be poor, In that sweet, mild western air.
ContemplativeRolfe Humphries

Night Song of Dafydd ap Gwilym

All this I was doing Over a girl, In loneliness going Across the bare moor And through the blind night In the pitch of the darkness, Lost from the high road. Through many ridged fields, Down slopes that were soggy, Over stubble and furrow With stumble and sorrow, Through nine thorny thickets, By ruined old forts, To the brow of the mountain, And missing the bogs And their green habitation

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