Simon Davies

The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.

The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue.

For take thy balance, if thou be wise, And weigh the wind, that under heaven doth blow; Or weight the light, that in the East doth rise; Or weigh the thought, that from man's mind doth flow. But if the weight of these thou canst not show, Weight but one word which from thy lips doth fall. For how canst thou those greater secrets know, That doest not know the least thing of them all? Ill can he rule the great, that cannot reach the small.

Ongietan sceal gleaw hæle hu gæstlic bið, þonne ealre þisse worulde wela weste stondeð. (A wise man shall understands how spectral it is, when all this world's wealth lies to waste.)

These are amazing: each Joining a neighbor, as though speech Were a still performance. Arranging by chance To meet as far this morning From the world as agreeing With it, you and I Are suddenly what the trees try To tell us we are: That their merely being there Means something; that soon We may touch, love, explain. And glad not to have invented Such comeliness, we are surrounded: A silence already filled with noises, A canvas on which emerges A chorus of smiles, a winter morning. Placed in a puzzling light, and moving, Our days put on such reticence These accents seem their own defense.

Þæs oferéode, ðisses swá mæg (As that passed away, so may this)

When the wind is strong, The earth seems like someone's kite. But as it is still high noon. Men notice that night is already there. The wind uses no words, But only frets as it swirls about. I think of the winds on other stars, Whether they could be friends together. On the earth, there is night, there is day. Between them, what are the stars doing? Silent, spreading. How do they endure? In the daylight, the blue sky tells lies. While the night mutters the truth, we are asleep. And in the morning, we all say we dreamed.

Is the old myth really nonsense? The one about the mourning of Linus, how music first broke on the barren wilderness; how, in the startled space left gaping by the loss of a boy like a god, emptiness rang as never before with what holds us rapt, comforts now and can help.