“They saw their injured country's woe;
The flaming town, the wasted field;
Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;
They took the spear, - but left the shield.”
―Philip Freneau
.
And by a prudent flight and cunning save A life which valour could not, from the grave. A better buckler I can soon regain, But who can get another life again?
Archilochus
Does the meaning of this sonnet, captured in the very last line, seem any clearer to you now?
__________ STILLNESS __________
No sound beyond the dropping of the leaves Or shushing in the treetops of the stirring In the air and periodic whirring Soft of wings and bundling of sheaves ––
Every now and then a bird may call Looking for or longing for his mate; Escaping still the hunter’s dinner plate. Scythes swish steadily as grain grown tall
Submits to delicate compelling force. Workers silently bent to their task Over whom hot sunshine spills its rays
Reap swiftly knowing pain could come, of course. Later, in the afterglow they’ll bask Dreaming foolishly of better days.
~ FreeThinke
That, as you may recall, was inspired by Brueghel's painting of peasants in a field of golden grain, cutting and bundling it into sheaves beneath a bright blue sky. They probably never realized how good they had it. Few of us ever do.
4 comments:
What a pity!
Progress ceeased to be Progress long ago, and became, instead, a headlong dash into the Maelstrom at ever incresing rates of speed.
And now, we breathlessly await for Rocket Man to do his worst.
There iseems to be no adequate defense against this kind of Madness.
It can't be hidden in a Diappointment Room, or locked away in an Asylum.
Neither is it susciptible to Sympathy, Pity, attempts at Understandng, nor Therapy of any kind no matter how amiably administered
Does the meaning of this sonnet, captured in the very last line, seem any clearer to you now?
__________ STILLNESS __________
No sound beyond the dropping of the leaves
Or shushing in the treetops of the stirring
In the air and periodic whirring
Soft of wings and bundling of sheaves ––
Every now and then a bird may call
Looking for or longing for his mate;
Escaping still the hunter’s dinner plate.
Scythes swish steadily as grain grown tall
Submits to delicate compelling force.
Workers silently bent to their task
Over whom hot sunshine spills its rays
Reap swiftly knowing pain could come, of course.
Later, in the afterglow they’ll bask
Dreaming foolishly of better days.
~ FreeThinke
That, as you may recall, was inspired by Brueghel's painting of peasants in a field of golden grain, cutting and bundling it into sheaves beneath a bright blue sky. They probably never realized how good they had it. Few of us ever do.
Reminds me of a tale I read as a boy, "Tom Swift and his Rocket Ship"....
...and yes, we dream of better days and fail to appreciate the one's we're given.
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