There is nothing lost

Ang Lee’s Sense and Sensibility is full of poetry. Cowper, Shakespeare, Spenser: all the poets the Dashwood sisters would have read, and Marianne in particular would have relished. Towards the end, as she recovers from her great disappointment, she listens tranquilly as Colonel Brandon reads from a small brown volume the size of a hymn book. We only hear a few lines:


Nor is the earth the less, or loseth ought,
For whatsoever from one place doth fall,
Is with the tide unto another brought:
For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.

I always liked them but never recognised them. They come from Spenser’s The Faerie Queene (Book V Canto II), which, though unfinished, consisted of over 2000 ‘Spenserian’ stanzas of nine lines each. (Colonel Brandon, then, probably reads from an abridged edition, or perhaps a book of elegant extracts.) They are part of a dialogue between the heroic knight Artegall and a wicked Giant who wants to practice a kind of radical equality that would raze the mountains and hold back the sea from encroaching on the land. Artegall’s answer is a lovely embrace of mutability: though everything returns to dust or fades away, there is after all nothing lost.

Of things vnseene how canst thou deeme aright,
Then answered the righteous Artegall,
Sith thou misdeem’st so much of things in sight?
What though the sea with waues continuall
Doe eate the earth, it is no more at all:
Ne is the earth the lesse, or loseth ought,
For whatsoeuer from one place doth fall,
Is with the tide vnto an other brought:
For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.

Likewise the earth is not augmented more,
By all that dying into it doe fade.
For of the earth they formed were of yore;
How euer gay their blossome or their blade
Doe flourish now, they into dust shall vade.
What wrong then is it, if that when they die,
They turne to that, whereof they first were made?
All in the powre of their great Maker lie:
All creatures must obey the voice of the most hie.

 

 

An Unexpected Journey

Robert Fitzgerald's poem for Epiphany, which appeared in The New Yorker in January 1967, seems to place the biblical tale of the Magi in a realm Tolkein might have recognised. When Fitzgerald wrote his poem, The Fellowship of the Ring was in its 15th impression, and Rembrandt Films had just produced an animated adaptation of The Hobbit (whose liberties border on the Jacksonian). Middle-earth evoked as much fantastic longing in that turbulent time as it seems to do in ours. Fitzgerald's little poem suggests such longing, and its satisfaction, is never far from any one of us. 

Immortal brilliance of presage
In any dark day’s iron age
May come to lift the hair and bless
Even our tired earthliness
 
And sundown bring an age of gold,
Forged in faerie, far and old,
An elsewhere and an elfin light,
And kings rise eastward in the night.

 

 

Collect for the Sunday after Christmas

ALMIGHTY God, who hast given us thy only-begotten Son to take our nature upon him, and as at this time to be born of a pure Virgin: Grant that we being regenerate, and made thy children by adoption and grace, may daily be renewed by thy Holy Spirit; through the same our Lord Jesus Christ, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the same Spirit, ever one God, world without end. Amen.

For unto us

It's been a while since I posted anything. That's because we're expecting a Happy Event next winter, and I've spent the last ten weeks or so on the couch or hunched over the sink. Morning sickness is hideous, meaningless, and grossly misnamed; in my experience, anyway, there's nothing matutinal about it. Unrelenting nausea aside, we do feel blessed and excited. And this Christmas I'm thinking about the gestation of Our Lord, as much as his birth. I wonder if Mary felt sick? I wonder if her joints ached and her ankles swelled up and if she got kicked in the ribs by a tiny dominical foot? Riding that donkey can't have been easy. We know she cherished things in her heart. I wonder if those things were anything like Judith Wright's lovely meditation “Woman to Child”? Once the nausea passed, maybe. 
You who were darkness warmed my flesh 
where out of darkness rose the seed. 
Then all a world I made in me; 
all the world you hear and see 
hung upon my dreaming blood. 

There moved the multitudinous stars, 
and coloured birds and fishes moved. 
There swam the sliding continents. 
All time lay rolled in me, and sense, 
and love that knew not its beloved. 

O node and focus of the world; 
I hold you deep within that well 
you shall escape and not escape- 
that mirrors still your sleeping shape; 
that nurtures still your crescent cell. 

I wither and you break from me; 
yet though you dance in living light 
I am the earth, I am the root, 
I am the stem that fed the fruit, 
the link that joins you to the night.

Giftshop fail

I was looking for a gift for a little child in the art gallery store. I realised quickly that most of the gifts for sale there were not really aimed at children at all, rather at their hipster parents or well-wishers. A story about a bear finding a cute hat in an op shop, for example, might tickle a hipster's whimsical fancy, but wouldn't do much for her two-year-old son. That amount of overpriced quirk, of which children were the unwitting butts, made me uncomfortable, so I left.

I don't know what the opposite of a hipster is, I mused as I walked away, but it might just be a child. Of all human beings, children are the least capable of irony, the least pretentious, and the least detached. They are blissfully unaware of social codes and foibles, and they are avid and unquestioning consumers. The hipster parent might want his kid to love Wes Anderson films, but I don't know any kids (alas) who don't prefer Disney. The hipster parent might gleefully buy Augustus Finds a Deck Hat, but his child will every time prefer We're Going on a Bear Hunt.