The Waterfall
(Henry Vaughan, 1655)
With what deep murmurs through time's silent stealth
Doth thy transparent, cool, and watery wealth
Here flowing fall,
And chide, and call,
As if his liquid, loose retinue stayed
Lingering, and were of this steep place afraid,
The common pass
Where, clear as glass,
All must descend--
Not to an end,
But quickened by this deep and rocky grave,
Rise to a longer course more bright and brave...
Have sat and pleased my pensive eye,
Why, since each drop of thy quick store
Runs thither whence it flowed before,
Should poor souls fear a shade or night,
Who came, sure, from a sea of light?
Or since those drops are all sent back
So sure to thee, that none doth lack,
Why should frail flesh doubt any more
That what God takes He'll not restore?
My sacred wash and cleanser here,
My first consignor unto those
Fountains of life where the Lamb goes!
What sublime truths and wholesome themes
Lodge in thy mystical deep streams!
Such as dull man can never find
Unless that Spirit lead his mind
Which first upon thy face did move,
And hatched all with His quickening love.
As this loud brook's incessant fall
In streaming rings restagnates all,
Which reach by course the bank, and then
Are no more seen, just so pass men.
O my invisible estate,
My glorious liberty, still late!
Thou art the channel my soul seeks,
Not this with cataracts and creeks.
On a different note, another blogger friend recently said on his blog that he thinks blogging and other forms of social networking verge on narcissism. That kind of attitude makes me sad for two reasons. First of all, serious psychological conditions have become fodder for psychobabblers who chew on popular literature/trends and then regurgitate the stuff to make themselves look good and often end up making other people feel bad. Secondly, if you think about it, Narcissus--the fellow in Greek mythology who fell in love with his own reflection and the namesake for a certain modern psychopathy--should never have become so despised and blamed for his lover Echo's despair. Echo, after all, had brought trouble on herself for gossiping, talking too much, and annoying the gods. She was condemned to always have the last word. That doesn't seem like such an awful punishment, unless you consider that she could only repeat what someone else had just spoken and was not allowed to ever give voice to an original thought again. It's no wonder Narcissus plopped himself down on the riverbank and became enchanted with his reflection. Who likes being taunted by having his words flung back at him--a verbal slap in the face? Still, though, if he had really been so pathologically self-absorbed, he would have been gratified hearing his own words replayed. He wanted no part of Echo with her endless repetition. It's a shame that the nymph and son of a nymph couldn't sit down and discuss things sanely over a cup of tea. And not fret about who gets to have the last word on a subject or who's right or wrong--a wonderful exception to the rule in our modern society and quite in line with that other, old-fashioned, unpopular, outdated one. You know--that Golden Rule.
