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Word & Song by Anthony Esolen
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Content provided by Anthony Esolen. All podcast content including episodes, graphics, and podcast descriptions are uploaded and provided directly by Anthony Esolen or their podcast platform partner. If you believe someone is using your copyrighted work without your permission, you can follow the process outlined here https://player.fm/legal.
reclaiming the good, the beautiful, and the true
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9 episodes
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Manage series 3540370
Content provided by Anthony Esolen. All podcast content including episodes, graphics, and podcast descriptions are uploaded and provided directly by Anthony Esolen or their podcast platform partner. If you believe someone is using your copyrighted work without your permission, you can follow the process outlined here https://player.fm/legal.
reclaiming the good, the beautiful, and the true
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9 episodes
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ĆThe scene is a bright borderland between heaven and a drab city below. One of the blest, a cheery Scotsman named George, has come down from the regions of bliss to meet our narrator and to teach him the secrets of genuine joy and love, human and divine. Theyāre secrets, not because God hides them, but because we human beings, such as we are, have weak eyes, even if we do look in the right places, and often we donāt. All at once a woman of splendid beauty comes down from the mountains, accompanied by a train of spirits, then of boys and girls scattering flowers to strew her way, and then even animals ā dogs and cats, birds and horses. The narrator at first thinks it must be Mary, and he stammers to ask George, who anticipates him, saying no, it isnāt. āItās someone yeāll never have heard of,ā he says. āHer name was Sarah Smith and she lived at Golders Green.ā A more humdrum name and place it is hard to imagine. But, George continues, āShe is one of the great ones. Yeāll have heard that fame in this country and fame on Earth are two quite different things.ā This ordinary woman touched and blessed the lives of everyone who met her. āEvery young man or boy that met her became her son ā even if it was only the boy who brought the meat to her back door. Every girl that met her was her daughter.ā And this made them more loving to their parents, truer to husband or wife. The world canāt see it, as Iāve said. But nothing is hidden from God. Please Upgrade to Support W&S As no doubt many of our readers know, that scene above comes from C. S. Lewisā brilliant novel, The Great Divorce. And something like that sentiment we find in todayās Poem of the Week, by the wise, honest, and tender-hearted poet Thomas Gray. He is in a country churchyard, and he looks around at the memorials, and he asks a question that might occur to somebody who cares about human lives and all the secrets they hold. What were these people like? They lived in obscurity. Itās just a country village, after all. They had no great classical learning. They were far from the busy markets of the world. They did not exercise their lungs in the House of Commons. Who knows but God what they might have done, had Oxford or Cambridge been in their field of vision? Who knows what good, or what evil, their humble circumstances kept them from performing? But God does not judge in the subjunctive mood. He judges the heart; what man cannot see. Who can say that he really knows himself? The saint on earth, I think, is a hundred times more blessed than he knows. I think of my two grandmothers in this regard. Did they know how saintly they were? They hardly suspected they were good at all, because they did not dwell on themselves. But Gray is in that churchyard, and he asks the questions that will occur to a man of large heart, moved by the human things ā what no merely material improvements in life will change. What secrets do these homely memorials bear? And he imagines one soul especially, someone who might have been a poet, and perhaps was a poet in a small and secret way ā not somebody who plays with words, but rather somebody who dares to explore, with sympathy, the human heart. Thatās the soul whose Epitaph concludes the poem. The first excerpt below comes from Grayās own musings; the second is that Epitaph, sober, gentle, and serene. āSt. Martinās Church, Canterbury,ā E. W. Haslehust. Public Domain. Please Share this Post Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published . . . Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial Fire, Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of Time did ne'er unroll: Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of the fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. . . The EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send; He gave to Misery all he had, a tear; He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God. Word & Song by Anthony Esolen is an online magazine devoted to reclaiming the good, the beautiful, and the true. We publish six essays each week, on words, classic hymns, poems, films, and popular songs, as well a weekly podcast for paid subscribers, alternately Poetry Aloud or Anthony Esolen Speaks . Paid subscribers also receive audio-enhanced posts and on-demand access to our full archive, and may add their comments to our posts and discussions. To support this project, please join us as a free or paid subscriber. We value all of our subscribers, and we thank you for reading Word and Song! Thank you for supporting our mission at Word & Song!ā¦
The author of our Hymn of the Week , John Keble, was the sort of man it is hard to imagine outside of the nineteenth century, and that is to the credit of his age. His father was an Anglican minister, devout, intelligent, highly cultured, and satisfied with a modest vicarage in Gloucestershire, in the lovely surroundings of the Cotswolds. The elder Keble educated his children at home, sending the boys to Oxford when they were ready, which his son John did at age 14, winning a scholarship to Corpus Christi College. When you hear the word ācollege,ā you must not think of those credentialing machines that we have among us, where thousands of young people dwell in overwhelming anonymity, thinking mainly of getting out of there to build a career in the world and to make money or to secure some personal ambition. Corpus Christi College, when John Keble was a member, and indeed only a young teenage boy still growing up, was made up of a few dozen youths who lived together, read books together, discussed important questions regarding religion, political life, history, literature, and art, and formed their imaginations at the fireside of friendship. One of those fellows was Tom Arnold, that is, the boy who would become Dr. Thomas Arnold, the wise and saintly headmaster of Rugby (whence we get the name of the sport the boys invented there), and father of the poet and titan of criticism, Matthew Arnold. Keble was a splendid scholar, not only in the classics but in mathematics too, and at the age of 18 he was elected to be a fellow at Oriel College. That would be like being an assistant professor at Harvard. Among his associates at Oriel, and a dear friend and collaborator, was the young John Henry Newman , whose work we have also featured at Word and Song. But that is another story. Join us as a Paid Subscriber Keble wasnāt just a scholar or a controversialist. He was a poet. He never claimed to be a great poet, nor does it appear that it was in his heart to strive for comparison with such giants of religious poetry as George Herbert or John Milton . But all that he wrote, if I can judge by what I have seen, is strong, direct, unpretentious, and sincere. In the introduction to his collection of poems, The Christian Year, he says that he sought for some strain of music of his own, worthy to express his devotion to God. Of himself there was none. āPrayer is the secret , ā he says. āAnd thus with untuned heart I feebly prayed,ā knocking timidly at the door. The Spirit, the āFountain of harmony,ā āby whom the troubled waves of earthly sound / Are gathered into order,ā that same Spirit that stirred above the dark waters on the first day of creation, must stir above the soul and quicken it with light. So then, Kebleās poetry is prayer, born of prayer. But that doesnāt mean that he was simply scribbling down his feelings as he pleased. Remember, all his life he was surrounded by the refinements of a classical education; and he also numbered among his closest friends Sir John Coleridge, nephew of the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge , and the poet Wordsworth himself, whose nephew Christopher Wordsworth, later an Anglican bishop, wrote our previous Hymn of the Week, āSongs of Thankfulness and Praise.ā Give a gift subscription This weekās hymn, āBlest Are the Pure in Heart,ā is taken from a much longer poem that Keble published in The Christian Year. It is headed with the verse from the Beatitudes: āBlessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.ā That is the secret that is in plain sight. Letās think about this for a moment. It isnāt only true that we love somebody because weāve gotten to know him. It is also true that we can hardly get to know a human being very deeply unless we love him. āWhere there is love, there is an eye,ā said the worthy and fascinating monk, Richard of Saint Victor. Itās not just because people hide things. It simply follows from the nature of an intellectual being. There are unfathomed depths. Why, we often float along the surface of our own selves, so that we need someone who loves us to cause us to see more of that world beneath, and with God, we are talking about someone who, to quote Saint Augustine, āis more intimately near to us than we are to ourselves.ā āWhat do you wish?ā asked Jesus to the blind Bartimaeus. āLord,ā he replied, āthat I may see.ā Hence do we pray for purity of heart: that we may see. Share this Post Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published Blest are the pure in heart, For they shall see our God; The secret of the Lord is theirs, Their soul is Christ's abode. The Lord, who left the heavens Our life and peace to bring, To dwell in lowliness with men, Their pattern and their King, He to the lowly soul Doth still himself impart; And for his dwelling and his throne Chooseth the pure in heart. Lord, we thy presence seek; May ours this blessing be; Give us a pure and lowly heart, A temple meet for thee. Debra has found for you today a beautiful version of this weekās hymn sung by The Guilford Cathedral Choir. Word & Song by Anthony Esolen is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.ā¦
Here at Sometimes a Song Iāve often commented that the great flowering of American popular music in the mid-twentieth century came about as a result of the convergence of talents and circumstances, and sometimes of hardship or happenstance. This weekās selection is an example of such a song. āIt Was a Very Good Yearā was far from the first song written by Ervin Drake, a man who was very well known behind the musical scenes in the 1950ās and 1960ās for the music he produced in television, particularly in television specials for a list of big stars as long as your arm. Born in 1919, Drake grew up in Manhattan, where he worked on many varsity shows as a student at City College of New York, while earning a degree in social science. But three decades elapsed ā not to mention a whole career in popular music ā between his earning his degree in Social Science in 1936 and his taking a formal music degree at Julliard in the mid-1960ās. Drake was among the early group of inductees into the Songwriterās Hall of Fame, after its institution by the very great songwriter, Johnny Mercer. Drake knew his music long before attended Julliard, but he was a clever lyricist as well, and in the 1940ās had some success with setting English lyrics to Latin American tunes, when the popularity of Latin music was on the rise in the English-speaking world. I had to laugh when I discovered that Drake was the composer and lyricist of a song that my father always loved, a big hit for a now mostly forgotten singer called Eddie Howard. Howard is best remembered for his rendition an American standard called āTo Each His Own.ā But that wasnāt Drakeās song. Nope, the one he wrote that my dad heard and loved as a kid was āThe Rickety Rickshaw Man . I just this minute listened to that little novelty piece and had a moment of time-transport to my fatherās childhood in 1946 when the song was a hit. Then I jumped forward a couple of decades to my own childhood, when I learned that Drake had written the English lyrics for another Latin American tune which became a big hit for Engelbert Humperdinck in 1968. That song, which I recall hearing on the airwaves myself, was a Bossa Nova called, āQuando, Quando, Quando?ā Upgrade to Support Word & Song So even though I had never heard of Ervin Drake before I began to research our song for this week, I had indeed heard his music, and no doubt anyone who watched television or listened to radio any time during the 1940ās through the 1970ās has as well. Drake wrote āIt Was a Very Good Yearā in 1961, at the request of his friend, music producer Artie Mogull, for the very popular Kingston Trio. Artie dropped this urgent request on Ervin, who went home and dashed off the song overnight so that Mogull could present it the next day to the trioās lead singer, Bob Shane. Shane was looking for a good solo song to record for the groupās upcoming album. It appears that Ervin Drake had more than a few notes up his musical sleeve to be magician enough to pull this song out of his hat. Abracadabra! Is there more to our song today? Well, of course. Bob Shane did record a very fine āstraightā arrangement of āIt Was a Very Good Yearā for the trioās album, and although the song was released as a single, it didnāt make the charts. But tracks from the album were played over those ever-present air waves. And as it happened several years later, Frank Sinatra was driving home to his place in Palm Springs late one night. When youāre tired and have a long drive, what do you to to stay awake? You listen to the radio, of course. The story has it that when Frank heard the tune he immediately pulled into a gas station to call his producer (from a phone booth) to ask him to get an arrangement of the song āwith lots of violins and maybe an oboeā right away . You see, Frank, then 50 years old, was working on a retrospective-style album, to be called āSeptember of My Years.ā āIt Was a Very Good Yearā might very well have been written FOR him, and Iām sure that many people thought it had been written for him. The song just needed the right arrangement and the Frank Sinatra touch to make it a great hit and one of his signature songs. And Frankās instinct for the song was right. In 1966, āSeptember of My Yearsā won the Grammy for Album of the Year . Frank won the Grammy for Best Male Vocal Performance . And āIt Was a Very Good Yearā won Best Instrumental Accompanying a Vocalist . And the competition at the Grammys was overwhelming that year, with music from āThe Sound of Music,ā āMary Poppins,ā and āHello, Dolly!ā in the running for the awards. And how about the songās āstoryā? Whose was that? Well Sinatra made it his own, by bringing out the melancholy in the lyrics, with the wistful tale of time passing from youth through adulthood and into later years. But it turns out that at the precise moment when Ervin Drake had been asked to write a song for Bob Shane (who was by no means advanced in HIS years), Ervin (then widowed) had just rediscovered an old flame from his own youth (a widow herself) and was about to be married again, in his 40ās, to his first love. He dedicated this song to her. Give a gift subscription So for today, I give you Frank Sinatraās 1965 recording of āIt Was a Very Good Year,ā as well as the sweet 1961 version of the song by The Kingston Trio ās Bob Shane, and a rare recording-session video of The Voice himself putting down the track for this song. That last video is simply charming in more ways than I can list. And for the hardiest of our subscribers, I have also included (above) links to the Engelbert Humperdinck and Eddie Howard songs, too. Enjoy! Please Share this Post Word & Song by Anthony Esolen is an online magazine devoted to reclaiming the good, the beautiful, and the true. We publish six essays each week, on words, classic hymns, poems, films, and popular songs, as well a weekly podcast for paid subscribers, alternately Poetry Aloud or Anthony Esolen Speaks . Paid subscribers also receive audio-enhanced posts and on-demand access to our full archive, and may add their comments to our posts and discussions. To support this project, please join us as a free or paid subscriber. We value all of our subscribers, and we thank you for reading Word and Song!ā¦
Here, ladies and gentlemen, is a poem that schoolchildren once loved, and that has given us the idea of the āalbatross around the neck,ā the punishment that attends to the Ancient Mariner in our ballad today, because without any motivation, he had so little regard for the beautiful creature of God that he shot it, for no reason but that he could. The Mariner endures a terrible penance, and he is forgiven, but on condition ā that he never leave off, but he must wander round the world, and when he meets some man whom he knows must hear his tale, he must tell it, so that the man may avert the same kind of sin and its dreadful punishment. We hope you will appreciate this classic work of English poetry and perhaps share Word & Song to help us reach more readers. We have included the entire poem so that you may read along with Tonyās recitation of it. Share this Post Give a gift subscription āThe Albatross about My Head was Strung, William Strang. Public Domain. Word & Song by Anthony Esolen is an online magazine devoted to reclaiming the good, the beautiful, and the true. We publish six essays each week, on words, classic hymns, poems, films, and popular songs, as well a weekly podcast for paid subscribers, alternately Poetry Aloud or Anthony Esolen Speaks . Paid subscribers also receive audio-enhanced posts and on-demand access to our full archive, and may add their comments to our posts and discussions. To support this project, please join us as a free or paid subscriber. We value all of our subscribers, and we thank you for reading Word and Song! Many thanks to our founders and paid subscribers for supporting our mission at Word & Song! Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published The Rime of the Ancient Mariner Argument How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own Country. PART I It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set: May'st hear the merry din.' He holds him with his skinny hand, 'There was a ship,' quoth he. 'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' Eftsoons his hand dropt he. He holds him with his glittering eyeā The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three years' child: The Mariner hath his will. The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. 'The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top. The Sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea. Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noonā' The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon. The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy. The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he Was tyrannous and strong: He struck with his o'ertaking wings, And chased us south along. With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, And southward aye we fled. And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold: And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald. And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen: Nor shapes of men nor beasts we kenā The ice was all between. The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around: It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound! At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name. It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit; The helmsman steered us through! And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariner's hollo! In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white Moon-shine.' 'God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus!ā Why look'st thou so?'āWith my cross-bow I shot the ALBATROSS. PART II The Sun now rose upon the right: Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea. And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariner's hollo! And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe: For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow! Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist: Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea! All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea. About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue and white. And some in dreams assurĆØd were Of the Spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. PART III There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time! How glazed each weary eye, When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky. At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist; It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist. A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it neared and neared: As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged and tacked and veered. With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail; Through utter drought all dumb we stood! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, And cried, A sail! a sail! With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call: Gramercy! they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in. As they were drinking all. See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! Hither to work us weal; Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel! The western wave was all a-flame. The day was well nigh done! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun. And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace!) As if through a dungeon-grate he peered With broad and burning face. Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, Like restless gossameres? Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that a DEATH? and are there two? Is DEATH that woman's mate? Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice; 'The game is done! I've won! I've won!' Quoth she, and whistles thrice. The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out; At one stride comes the dark; With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark. We listened and looked sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; From the sails the dew did dripā Till clomb above the eastern bar The hornĆØd Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip. One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. Four times fifty living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one. The souls did from their bodies fly,ā They fled to bliss or woe! And every soul, it passed me by, Like the whizz of my cross-bow! PART IV 'I fear thee, ancient Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand. I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand, so brown.'ā Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! This body dropt not down. Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I. I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away; I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky Lay dead like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet. The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they: The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away. An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die. The moving Moon went up the sky, And no where did abide: Softly she was going up, And a star or two besideā Her beams bemocked the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread; But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charmĆØd water burnt alway A still and awful red. Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes: They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire: Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam; and every track Was a flash of golden fire. O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare: A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware: Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware. The self-same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea. PART V Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul. The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled with dew; And when I awoke, it rained. My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank. I moved, and could not feel my limbs: I was so lightāalmost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost. And soon I heard a roaring wind: It did not come anear; But with its sound it shook the sails, That were so thin and sere. The upper air burst into life! And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about! And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between. And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge, And the rain poured down from one black cloud; The Moon was at its edge. The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side: Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide. The loud wind never reached the ship, Yet now the ship moved on! Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan. They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise. The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; Yet never a breeze up-blew; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do; They raised their limbs like lifeless toolsā We were a ghastly crew. The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee: The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said nought to me. 'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!' Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again, But a troop of spirits blest: For when it dawnedāthey dropped their arms, And clustered round the mast; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed. Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one. Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky-lark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning! And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song, That makes the heavens be mute. It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath. Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The spirit slid: and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune, And the ship stood still also. The Sun, right up above the mast, Had fixed her to the ocean: But in a minute she 'gan stir, With a short uneasy motionā Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion. Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound: It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound. How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare; But ere my living life returned, I heard and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air. 'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man? By him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross. The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.' The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done, And penance more will do.' PART VI First Voice 'But tell me, tell me! speak again, Thy soft response renewingā What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the ocean doing?' Second Voice Still as a slave before his lord, The ocean hath no blast; His great bright eye most silently Up to the Moon is castā If he may know which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see! how graciously She looketh down on him.' First Voice 'But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind?' Second Voice 'The air is cut away before, And closes from behind. Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! Or we shall be belated: For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner's trance is abated.' I woke, and we were sailing on As in a gentle weather: 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high; The dead men stood together. All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter: All fixed on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter. The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray. And now this spell was snapt: once more I viewed the ocean green, And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seenā Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made: Its path was not upon the sea, In ripple or in shade. It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadow-gale of springā It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming. Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sailed softly too: Sweetly, sweetly blew the breezeā On me alone it blew. Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed The light-house top I see? Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree? We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, And I with sobs did prayā O let me be awake, my God! Or let me sleep alway. The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn! And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the Moon. The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock: The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock. And the bay was white with silent light, Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came. A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: I turned my eyes upon the deckā Oh, Christ! what saw I there! Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood! A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood. This seraph-band, each waved his hand: It was a heavenly sight! They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light; This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impartā No voice; but oh! the silence sank Like music on my heart. But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the Pilot's cheer; My head was turned perforce away And I saw a boat appear. The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast: Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy The dead men could not blast. I saw a thirdāI heard his voice: It is the Hermit good! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood. PART VII This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. He kneels at morn, and noon, and eveā He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump. The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, 'Why, this is strange, I trow! Where are those lights so many and fair, That signal made but now?' 'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit saidā 'And they answered not our cheer! The planks looked warped! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along; When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, That eats the she-wolf's young.' 'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish lookā (The Pilot made reply) I am a-feared'ā'Push on, push on!' Said the Hermit cheerily. The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard. Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread: It reached the ship, it split the bay; The ship went down like lead. Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot's boat. Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound. I moved my lipsāthe Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit; The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And prayed where he did sit. I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. 'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row.' And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand. 'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!' The Hermit crossed his brow. 'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee sayā What manner of man art thou?' Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free. Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns. I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach. What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there: But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are: And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer! O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea: So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemĆØd there to be. O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company!ā To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends And youths and maidens gay! Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all. The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door. He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.ā¦
Weāve had illness in our family for the past week, so the New Year, 2025, is off to a rocky start. I had in mind a lovely Grammy-winning song to share for Sometimes a Song, but ā sort of the way Kurt Weill describes it in his beautiful āSeptember Songā ā time got away from me. So I will leave you with a mystery song to look for next week. Some of our readers will guess immediately what song the word āyearā brought to my mind. And in the meantime, I hope you will enjoy another wonderful and wistful tune about the passing of the days, months, and years, performed by the tremendous crooner, Tony Bennett. The composer of āSeptember Songā was not a Tin Pan Alley songwriter, as were so many of the great popular composers of his time, although he did live in New York in the heyday of those writers and collaborated with lyricists such as Ira Gershwin and Oscar Hammerstein. Kurt Weill arrived in the United States in 1933, a refugee from ā and target of ā the Nazi madness which had descended on his native land. Once in the United States, he thoroughly embraced American musical theater, where he immediately found a welcome place for his considerable talent. Not just a classically trained composer, Kurt Weill had studied with some of the European masters of his day. In addition to composing music in all of the classical forms, Weill worked for decades on his project of āreforming operaā by introducing it into musical theater, a venue through which he hoped to bring high musical art to the masses. Fittingly, his most widely known work in America to this day comes from a musical version of John Gayās The Beggarās Opera , which Weill produced with Berthold Brecht, first in Germany and later in New York. Although The Threepenny Opera bombed on Broadway (closing after only 13 performances) a tune from the production went on to be one of the most-recorded songs in the panoply of America popular song, āMack, the Knifeā (" Die Moritat von Mackie Messer "). Oddly enough, āSeptember Song,ā which likewise became a part of The American Songbook , Weill wrote for another Broadway bust, Knickerbocker Holiday . Itās a tribute to Kurt Weillās musical genius that he was able to compose such an immortal song while staying within the limited vocal range of Walter Huston, the showās star. Necessity, in this case, was the mother of a remarkable piece of musical art. Upgrade to Paid Today at a Discount A final note about Kurt Weill : by no means were all of the musical plays he worked on bombs. In fact, he was among the inaugural winners of Broadwayās Tony Award (1947, for his score of Street Scene). The version above of āSeptember Songā was recorded by Tony Bennett late in his career, as befits the song. His voice was still great, if a wee bit gravelly .. but just a wee bit. Share Word & Song by Anthony Esolen Word & Song by Anthony Esolen is a reader-supported online magazine devoted to reclaiming the good, the beautiful, and the true. To receive new posts and support this project, join us as a free or a paid subscriber. The āsubscribeā button below will take you to an page which describes what is included in each of the subscription tiers. We value all of our subscribers, and we thank you for reading Word and Song!ā¦
Christmastide is still here, and so are our Christmas offers at Word & Song! Upgrade Now or Give a Gift The more weāve seen of films made either in England or the United States during that Golden Age, from about 1935 to 1965, the more it strikes us that a lot of them were set at Christmastime, and of those, quite a few were not about getting presents, but about giving of oneself during the holy season ā and no one needed to be reminded that it was holy. There really are quite a few, far more than the ones you may be used to seeing re-run every year. Here is one, our Film of the Week , Iāll Be Seeing You. The situation again is one that calls upon one of the quieter forms of charity, which is tact, that ātouchā that makes people comfortable, or that at least spares them pain. Itās the Christmas season, coming up on the New Year, and a young woman, Mary Marshall (Ginger Rogers) has been given a furlough from the state prison, where she is serving a six-year term for manslaughter. We arenāt told, until about twenty minutes into the film, any of the details of the crime, if indeed it was a crime at all. On the train back to Pinehill, where her aunt and uncle live ā she does not have a home of her own ā she happens to be sitting next to a sergeant just released from an army psychiatric ward. The second world war is on, and heās been treated for shell-shock. We can pick up a little of his trouble in the twitching of his right hand, and his shyness, bordering on stolidity, whenever anybody tries to talk to him about the war. This fellow, Zack Morgan (Joseph Cotten), has no home, either. We later find out that he grew up in an orphanage. He and Mary have a nice conversation on that train, and when she tells him that sheās getting off at Pinehill, he says that thatās a coincidence, because thatās where heās stopping too, to visit his sister. Sheās told him that sheās a traveling saleslady. Well, he has no sister ā he has to stay in a clean but bare room at the YMCA. And she is due back in prison in eight days. But she gives him her uncleās name and address, and sure enough, the Marshalls being good and generous people, especially when it comes to the boys in uniform, they invite him over for supper. They have only a few days, but neither one knows about the condition of the other. Meanwhile, weāve got Maryās family, which include Uncle Henry (Tom Tully), Aunt Sarah (Spring Byington), and Maryās cousin Barbara (Shirley Temple), a 17-year-old girl who is gaga for every soldier she sees. They try their hardest, and mostly succeed, in making Mary and then Zack feel welcome. But the clock is running. Iāve long said that Iād take Ginger Rogers over Fred Astaire any day of the week for acting and for singing; and Ginger could dance a little, too! Iāll Be Seeing You shows her at her best in a dramatic rather than comic role, and as for Joseph Cotten, his slight air of aristocratic gentility makes him a dead-on choice for the sensitive and lonely sergeant. Spring Byington and Tom Tully do not appear as if they are acting at all; it is as if they just stepped right into small town America. If you like to see the drama of goodness hurt by life but still good, this is a film for you. PS: If you love the song of the same name, as Debra does, you might recall her discussion of it here . Share this Post Gift Subscription at Discount A printable gift certificate is available below for your use! Word & Song by Anthony Esolen is an online magazine devoted to reclaiming the good, the beautiful, and the true. We publish six essays each week, on words, classic hymns, poems, films, and popular songs, as well a weekly podcast for paid subscribers, alternately Poetry Aloud or Anthony Esolen Speaks . Paid subscribers also receive audio-enhanced posts and on-demand access to our full archive, and may add their comments to our posts and discussions. To support this project, please join us as a free or paid subscriber. We value all of our subscribers, and we thank you for reading Word and Song! Right click on image to download for printing.ā¦
Christmastide is still here, and so are our Christmas offers at Word & Song! Upgrade or Gift at Special Rate Iāve long heard that we have no idea at what time of year Jesus was born, but here is one argument ā there are others, based in early Christian calendars ā for making it wintertime. Itās a simple one. When the angel spoke to Zachariah, he was exercising his priestly role for one of the great Jewish feasts. Assuming that it was Yom Kippur or Rosh Hashanah, that would put the conception of John the Baptist in September, which would put the Annunciation in March, because then Elizabeth was, as the angel said to Mary, in her sixth month. And that would place the birth of Jesus in December, and likely towards the latter end of it, too. But it is also a happy choice, for a reason that has a lot to do with the day coming up, when we celebrate the New Year . It was the eighth day of Jesusā birth, and on that day Mary and Joseph brought the child to the Temple, to be circumcised, fulfilling the commands of the Old Law, and this, as the ancient Fathers pointed out, would be the first time when Jesus shed blood on our behalf. At this dedication of the boy as belonging to the Lord, he would be given his name. Now, parents then didnāt give names because they sounded chic. Names were to have meaning, usually though not always religious meaning. Jesus ā that is our English form of the Greek form of his Hebrew name, which was Yeshua, the same as Joshua ā means āThe Lord Saves.ā Hence his name was to be a reflection or a revelation of what he came to earth to do. We might also remember the name Emmanuel, which as Hebrew ā immanu-el means āGod is With Us,ā or, more literally, āGod is in Our Midst.ā And no one suspected that the name would be fulfilled in the very flesh. So then, the New Year is coming, and itās been a long time since Iāve cared about the temporal odometer turning to another bunch of zeroes. But the year of salvation is another matter. My beloved Renaissance poet Edmund Spenser thought of both January 1 and March 25 as beginning the New Year, as was common enough in the old days, March 25 being the Feast of the Annunciation, and thus the beginning of a new era, that of the Son of God making his dwelling place among men, nine months before the Nativity. And so our Hymn of the Week , āTo the Name of Our Salvation,ā is a fine one to sing on this first of January, this feast of the naming of Jesus. It was originally written in Latin, we donāt know by whom, with the first line Gloriosi Salvatoris nominis praeconia, meaning, Herald of the glorious name of the Savior. It appears in an Antwerp breviary compiled in 1496; whatās below is a translation by the brilliant John Mason Neale , whose work we have featured here several times. When we love someone, we want to dwell upon his or her name, as if we could somehow see or feel the whole of the loved oneās personality just in the syllables and the sounds. In the case of Jesus, meaning and feeling are to be one, and uniquely so. Thatās why the unknown author uses the Latin word nomen so often, and why Neale is not sparing with the name, likewise. The New Year approaches. But this Name is forever. Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published To the Name of our salvation, Laud and honor let us pay, Which for many a generation Hid in God's foreknowledge lay; But with holy exultation We may sing aloud today. Jesus is the Name we treasure; Name beyond what words can tell; Name of gladness, Name of pleasure, Ear and heart delighting well; Name of sweetness, passing measure, Saving us from sin and hell. 'Tis the Name that whoso preacheth Speaks like music to the ear; Who in prayer this Name beseecheth Sweetest comfort findeth near; Who its perfect wisdom reacheth, Heavenly joy possesseth here. Therefore we, in love adoring, This most blessed Name revere, Holy Jesus, thee imploring So to write it in us here That hereafter, heavenward soaring, We may sing with angels there. Please Share this Post Give the gift of Word & Song for the new year. Give a Gift for the New Year Here is a lovely variation on our hymn, sung by the Choir of Marlborough College. Word & Song by Anthony Esolen is an online magazine devoted to reclaiming the good, the beautiful, and the true. We publish six essays each week, on words, classic hymns, poems, films, and popular songs, as well a weekly podcast for paid subscribers, alternately Poetry Aloud or Anthony Esolen Speaks . Paid subscribers also receive audio-enhanced posts and on-demand access to our full archive, and may add their comments to our posts and discussions. To support this project, please join us as a free or paid subscriber. We value all of our subscribers, and we thank you for reading Word and Song .ā¦
Christmastide is here, and so are our Christmas offers at Word & Song! Please bear with us as we catch up on our posts, which were delayed by Substackās āhousecleaning.ā Upgrade Now or Give a Gift Iāve written about a lot of great and renowned composers of popular music here at Sometimes a Song . And Iāve written about folk songs whose origin is rather obscure. Although the composer of our song for today published over 600 musical scores in her career as a music professor and choral director, Katherine Davis is best know for only two pieces. One is a hymn we have written about earlier, āLet All Things Now Livingā (set to the tune Ash Grove) , and the other is one of the most beloved Christmas songs of the 20th Century in America and around the world. Miss Davis was just shy of 50 years old in 1941, with the second world war raging, when she composed her āCarol of the Drum,ā inspired by the French carol, āPat-a-pan,ā set to a poem by Bernard de la Monnoye (1700). (Monnoyeās poem featured two boys, one with a flute and the other with a drum, by the way.) So Davisā tune and lyric were indebted to a centuries-old carol. I believe that this inspiration is what gives her āCarol of the Drumā the authenticity and timeless feeling of a true folk song. Not much notice was taken of āThe Carol of the Drumā at its original publication in 1941. But a decade later, a now famous refugee family from Austria chose to record it on their first Christmas album. The version by the Trapp Family Singers was released by Decca Records in 1952. These early recordings by the Trapp Family feature simple arrangements with little orchestration, but are quite lovely. Those of you who know this song as āThe Little Drummer Boyā in a re-named version (orchestrated by Harry Simone and recorded by the Simone Chorale in 1958) will note a great difference in tempo and presentation between the two performances. The Harry Simone version was so popular with American audiences that it reached the Billboard Top 40 for six years in a row. If you were growing up in the late 1950ās through the 1960ās, this is the version of the song you heard āin the airā every Christmas everywhere you went. Some of our readers will no doubt recall the song from the excellent performance of it by the Vienna Boysā Choir in the animated television production of āThe Little Drummer Boyā (1968). And so I present to you here all three lovely versions of a classic American carol. Again, Tony and I wish all of you the great blessings of the Christmas season. Please Share this Post A printable gift certificate is available below for your use! Give a gift subscription Word & Song by Anthony Esolen is an online magazine devoted to reclaiming the good, the beautiful, and the true. We publish six essays each week, on words, classic hymns, poems, films, and popular songs, as well a weekly podcast for paid subscribers, alternately Poetry Aloud or Anthony Esolen Speaks . Paid subscribers also receive audio-enhanced posts and on-demand access to our full archive, and may add their comments to our posts and discussions. To support this project, please join us as a free or paid subscriber. We value all of our subscribers, and we thank you for reading Word and Song! Right click on image to download for printing.ā¦
Merry Christmas, everyone! We tried to scheduling this poem and todayās Film of the Week to be sent to everyone yesterday and today, but neither post appears to have gone out. There was some maintenance on Substack going on, so we are sending these again now. Please forgive any duplication. Some of you have seen todayās poem before, but it is worth revisiting, we think. Many blessing to all of our subscribers this day and every day. Our Poem of the Week audio is free to all today. Itās one of the great paradoxes of human life that we so often find ourselves strangers in a strange land. āBury me not on the lone prairie,ā begs the dying lad in the old cowboy song, as he longs to be laid beside his father, far away. But though they are friendly to him, they do not heed his request. The patriarch Joseph, as he lay dying, made his countrymen promise that they would not leave his bones behind in Egypt ā the land where his word was law; it was not to be their home. The soldier will never again see his true love on āthe bonnie, bonnie banks oā Loch Lomond.ā Subscribe or Upgrade Christmas Discount Yet even when we are at home, we are not quite at home. When I was a boy, I was often lonely as I gazed from a hilltop over my town spread out far below and across the valley, and felt that it was not my home. Yet I miss that hilltop, though I know if I were to stand upon it today, I would miss even more; for the town has changed, and many a homely thing I took for granted and in a strange way even cherished is no longer there. Blaise Pascal once said that manās chief trouble is that he cannot sit quiet in his room. For he feels somehow that it is not his room after all; it isnāt where he ultimately belongs. But where does he belong? He cannot say. āThe Holy Virgin and St. Joseph Retire to a Stable,ā Joseph Parrocel. Public Domain. Chesterton says it for us. We belong, we can be home, only in the place where a mother who had no home had to give birth to her child. It was a ācrazy stable,ā he says, meaning that its timbers were cracked and tilted and its thatch was caving in, but this place was stronger and more permanent āthan the square stones of Rome.ā We have lost our hearts, he says, and where did we lose them? You cannot find the place on a map. No star-chart and no compass will take you to the lost Eden. And everywhere else is a foreign land to us, even if we but walk a few blocks from work to the houses we live in, and we lay our heads peacefully in bed at night. Thatās not to say that these foreign lands are poor and paltry things. Not at all! Here we have āchance and honor and high surprise,ā in the daily battle of human life, but our homes are āunder miraculous skies, / Where the yule tale was begun.ā Rome may be tall, but this place is taller. Eden may be old, but this place is older ā or rather it never has grown old, because it is the place of the eternal Son, the same who was born in a stable in Bethlehem and laid to sleep in a manger, whose hands played with the stars. We say, in the season of Advent, āCome to us!ā And He replies, āYes, I have come ā and I am calling you home.ā Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published There fared a mother driven forth Out of an inn to roam; In the place where she was homeless All men are at home. The crazy stable close at hand, With shaking timber and shifting sand, Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand Than the square stones of Rome. For men are homesick in their homes, And strangers under the sun, And they lay on their heads in a foreign land Whenever the day is done. Here we have battle and blazing eyes, And chance and honor and high surprise, But our homes are under miraculous skies Where the yule tale was begun. A Child in a foul stable, Where the beasts feed and foam; Only where He was homeless Are you and I at home; We have hands that fashion and heads that know, But our hearts we lost - how long ago! In a place no chart nor ship can show Under the sky's dome. This world is wild as an old wives' tale, And strange the plain things are, The earth is enough and the air is enough For our wonder and our war; But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings And our peace is put in impossible things Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings Round an incredible star. To an open house in the evening Home shall men come, To an older place than Eden And a taller town than Rome. To the end of the way of the wandering star, To the things that cannot be and that are, To the place where God was homeless And all men are at home. Word & Song is an online magazine devoted to reclaiming the good, the beautiful, and the true. We publish six essays each week, on words, classic hymn, poems, films, and popular songs, as well a weekly podcast, alternately Poetry Aloud or Anthony Esolen Speaks . To support this project, please join us as a free or paid subscriber. New Subscriber Christmas Discount Christmas Discount Offers 2024 Upgrade to paid or give a gift subscription now through Epiphany! Christmas Special Rate And if you are looking for a gift for the avid readers on your list, please do check out Professor Esolenās Book Page . Thereās literally something for everyone there, including two new books which we have just added to the list (see below). Browse All of Dr. Esolen's Books Hereā¦
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