Now, at the hour when ignorant mortals Drowse in the shade of their whirling sphere, Heaven and Hell from invisible portals Breathing comfort and ghastly fear, Voices I hear; I hear strange voices, flitting, calling, Wavering by on the dusky blast,— 'Come, let us go, for the night is falling; Come, let us go, for the day is past!' Troops of joys are they, now departed? Winged hopes that no longer stay? Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted? Powers that have linger'd their latest day? What do they say? What do they sing? I hear them calling, Whispering, gathering, flying fast,— 'Come, come, for the night is falling; Come, come, for the day is past!' Sing they to me?—'Thy taper's wasted; Mortal, thy sands of life run low; Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted: Time is ending;—we go, we go.' Sing they so? Mystical voices, floating, calling; Dim farewells—the last, the last? Come, come away, the night is falling; 'Come, come away, the day is past.' See, I am ready, Twilight voices! Child of the spirit-world am I; How should I fear you? my soul rejoices, O speak plainer! O draw nigh! Fain would I fly! Tell me your message, Ye who are calling Out of the dimness vague and vast; Lift me, take me,—the night is falling; Quick, let us go,—the day is past.
Twilight Voices by William Allingham (1824 to 1889) This week's poem can be found using this link.
COME, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release, Th’ indifferent judge between the high and low; With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: O make in me those civil wars to cease; I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, A rosy garland and a weary head: And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella’s image see.
To Sleep by Sir Philip Sidney (1554 to 1586) This week's poem can be found using this link.
I want to sing something—but this is all— I try and I try, but the rhymes are dull As though they were damp, and the echoes fall Limp and unlovable. Words will not say what I yearn to say— They will not walk as I want them to, But they stumble and fall in the path of the way Of my telling my love for you. Simply take what the scrawl is worth— Knowing I love you as sun the sod On the ripening side of the great round earth That swings in the smile of God.
A Scrawl by James Whitcomb Riley (1849 to 1916) This week's poem can be found at this link.
To-night the very horses springing by Toss gold from whitened nostrils. In a dream The streets that narrow to the westward gleam Like rows of golden palaces; and high From all the crowded chimneys tower and die A thousand aureoles. Down in the west The brimming plains beneath the sunset rest, One burning sea of gold. Soon, soon shall fly The glorious vision, and the hours shall feel A mightier master; soon from height to height, With silence and the sharp unpitying stars, Stern creeping frosts, and winds that touch like steel, Out of the depth beyond the eastern bars, Glittering and still shall come the awful night.
Winter Evening by Archibald Lampman (1861 to 1899) This week's poem can be found at this link.
The Old Year's gone away To nothingness and night: We cannot find him all the day Nor hear him in the night: He left no footstep, mark or place In either shade or sun: The last year he'd a neighbour's face, In this he's known by none. All nothing everywhere: Mists we on mornings see Have more of substance when they're here And more of form than he. He was a friend by every fire, In every cot and hall— A guest to every heart's desire, And now he's nought at all. Old papers thrown away, Old garments cast aside, The talk of yesterday, Are things identified; But time once torn away No voices can recall: The eve of New Year's Day Left the Old Year lost to all.
The Old Year by John Clare (1793 to 1864) This week's poem can be found at this link.
My journal notes on The Strain by Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan.
August was searing through the calender and Abraham Setrakian, laying out beams for a suspended roof, felt its burden more than most. The sun was baking him, every day it was like this. But even more than that, he had come to loathe the night, his bunk and his dreams of home, which had formerly been his only respite from the horror of the death camp, and was now a hostage to two equally merciless masters.
So begins another interlude, but, Setrakian has plans. He may not be able to defeat his Nazi masters, but he has designs to destroy the other.
Amazing isn’t it. The Earth is still revolving with us little mortals stomping about on it.