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lirik lagu david cort - himself, american art and whitman, thoreau, hawthorne

i think i shall never be k!lled by my ambition. i behold my failures and shortcomings there in writing, wherein it would give me much joy to thrive, with an equanimity which my worst enemy might be glad to see. and yet it is not that i am occupied with better things. one could well leave to others the record, who was absorbed in the life. but i have done nothing. i think the branch of the “tree of life” which headed to a bud in me, curtailed me somehow of a drop or two of sap, and so dwarfеd all my florets and drupes. yet as i tеll you i am very easy in my mind, and never dream of suicide. my whole philosophy—which is very real—teaches acquiescence and optimism. only when i see how much work is to be done, what room for a poet—for any spiritualist—in this great, intelligent, sensual, and avaricious america, i lament my fumbling fingers and stammering tongue

we have yet had no g~nius in america, with tyrannous eye, which knew the value of our incomparable materials, and saw, in the barbarism and materialism of the times, another carnival of the same gods whose picture he so much admires in homer; then in the middle age; then in calvinism. banks and tariffs, the newspaper and caucus, methodism and unitarianism, are flat and dull to dull people, but rest on the same foundations of wonder as the town of troy and the temple of delphi, and are as swiftly passing away. our logrolling, our stumps and their politics, our fisheries, our negroes and indians, our boats and our repudiations, the wrath of rogues and the pusillanimity of honest men, the northern trade, the southern planting, the western clearing, oregon and texas, are yet unsung. yet america is a poem in our eyes; its ample geography dazzles the imagination, and it will not wait long for metres

one book last summer came out in new york; a nondescript monster which yet had terrible eyes and buffalo strength, and was indisputably american, which i though to send you. but the book throve so badly with the few to whom i showed it, and wanted good morals so much, that i never did. yet, i believe now again, i shall! it is called leaves of grass, was written and printed by a journeyman printer in brooklyn, new york, named walter whitman, and after you have looked into it, if you think; as you may, that it is only an auctioneer’s inventory of a warehouse, you can light your pipe with it

in reading henry thoreau’s journal, i am very sensible of the vigor of his constitution. that oaken strength which i noted whenever he walked or worked or surveyed wood lots, the same unhesitating hand with which a field~laborer accosts a piece of work which i should shun as a waste of strength, henry shows in his literary task. he has muscle, & ventures on & performs feats which i am forced to decline. in reading him, i find the same thought, the same spirit that is in me, but he takes a step beyond, & ill~strates by excellent images that which i should have conveyed in a sleepy generality. ’tis as if i went into a gymnasium and saw youths leap, and climb, and swing, with a force unapproachable, though their feats were only continuations of my initial grapplings and jumps

yesterday, may 23, we buried hawth~rne in sleepy hollow, in a pomp of sunshine and verdure, and gentle winds. james freeman clarke read the service in the church and at the grave. longfellow, lowell, holmes, agassiz, h~~r, dwight, whipple, norton, alcott, hillard, fields, judge thomas, and i attended the he~rs~ as pallbearers. franklin pierce was with the family. the church was copiously decorated with white flowers delicately arranged. the corpse was unwillingly shown, – only a few moments to this company of his friends. but it was n0ble and serene in its aspect, – nothing amiss, – a calm and powerful head. a large company filled the church and the grounds of the cemetery. all was so bright and quiet that pain or mourning was hardly suggested, and holmes said to me that it looked like a happy meeting

clarke in the church said that hawth~rne had done more justice than any other to the shades of life, shown a sympathy with the crime in our nature, and, like jesus, was the friend of sinners

i thought there was a tragic element in the event, that might be more fully rendered, – in the painful solitude of the man, which, i suppose, could not longer be endured, and he died of it. i have found in his death a surprise and disappointment. i thought him a greater man than any of his works betray, that there was still a great deal of work in him, and that he might one day show a purer power. moreover, i have felt sure of him in his neighbourhood, and in his necessities of sympathy and intelligence, – that i could well wait his time, – his unwillingness and caprice, – and might one day conquer a friendship. it would have been a happiness, doubtless to both of us, to have come into habits of unreserved intercourse. it was easy to talk with him, – there were no barriers, – only, he said so little, that i talked too much, and stopped only because, as he gave no indications, i feared to exceed. he showed no egotism or self~assertion, rather a humility, and, at one time, a fear that he had written himself out. one day, when i found him on the top of his hill, in the woods, he paced back the path to his house, and said ‘this path is the only remembrance of me that will remain.’

it is time to be old
to take in sail:—
the god of bounds
who sets to seas a shore
come to me in his fatal rounds
and said: “no more!
no farther shoot
thy broad ambitious branches, and thy root
fancy departs; no more invent;
contract thy firmament
to compass of a tent
there’s not enough for this and that
make thy option which of two;
economize the failing river
not the less revere the giver
leave the many and hold the few
timely wise accept the terms
soften the fall with wary foot;
a little while
still plan and smile
and,—fault of novel germs,—
mature the unfallen fruit
curse, if thou wilt, thy sires
bad husbands of their fires
who, when they gave thee breath
failed to bequeath
the needful sinew stark as once
the baresark marrow to thy bones
but left a legacy of ebbing veins
inconstant heat and nerveless reins,—
amid the muses, left thee deaf and dumb
amid the gladiators, halt and numb.”
as the bird trims her to the gale
i trim myself to the storm of time
i man the rudder, reef the sail
obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime:
“lowly faithful, banish fear
right onward drive unharmed;
the port, well worth the cruise, is near
and every wave is charmed.”

- lirik lagu david cort

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