I've spent much of this past week thinking about dreams, ambition, and the legacies we leave behind, (before I listened to the Hamilton soundtrack, even), and so I thought I'd share a favorite poem along those lines. "The Old Astronomer"* is best known for the middle line "I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.", but the full context seems regretfully lost in most cases. The rhythm and the message get it stuck in my head for days, and so it seemed a fitting start to this poetry of the week idea.
But I wanted to give you some context for the author as well, and so I looked, and here's what I found: Sarah Williams was born in London in December 1837. She died at age 30, due to a surgery meant to treat the illness that would have killed her more slowly. Knowing this was a risk, she left her loved ones a poem praying for their comfort after her passing. (Not the poem we're discussing today.) Her final book of work, Twilight Hours: A Legacy of Verse, was published posthumously, "The Old Astronomer" included.
I have fewer words about that than I'd hoped, but I expect I'll be reading the rest of her poetry and writing now, and I suggest you do the same. So far it's all beautiful, and light even in sorrow. I may share some of it in later weeks. But for the moment, read "The Old Astronomer" and spend a few moments on your love and passions today.
The Old Astronomer
Reach me down my Tycho Brahé, – I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.
Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, ‘tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.
But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men’s fellowship and wiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles.
You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant’s fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.
What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight;
You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night.
I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known.
You “have none but me,” you murmur, and I “leave you quite alone”?
Well then, kiss me, – since my mother left her blessing on my brow,
There has been a something wanting in my nature until now;
I can dimly comprehend it, – that I might have been more kind,
Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind.
I “have never failed in kindness”? No, we lived too high for strife,–
Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;
But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still
To the service of our science: you will further it? you will!
There are certain calculations I should like to make with you,
To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true;
And remember, “Patience, Patience,” is the watchword of a sage,
Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.
I have sown, like Tycho Brahé, that a greater man may reap;
But if none should do my reaping, 'twill disturb me in my sleep
So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name;
See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.
I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak;
Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak:
It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars,–
God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.
* Some sources refer to this poem as "The Old Astronomer To His Pupil" or variants, but the only copy of the original publication I've seen has "The Old Astronomer" alone as the title, so I've kept that here throughout.
But I wanted to give you some context for the author as well, and so I looked, and here's what I found: Sarah Williams was born in London in December 1837. She died at age 30, due to a surgery meant to treat the illness that would have killed her more slowly. Knowing this was a risk, she left her loved ones a poem praying for their comfort after her passing. (Not the poem we're discussing today.) Her final book of work, Twilight Hours: A Legacy of Verse, was published posthumously, "The Old Astronomer" included.
I have fewer words about that than I'd hoped, but I expect I'll be reading the rest of her poetry and writing now, and I suggest you do the same. So far it's all beautiful, and light even in sorrow. I may share some of it in later weeks. But for the moment, read "The Old Astronomer" and spend a few moments on your love and passions today.
The Old Astronomer
Reach me down my Tycho Brahé, – I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.
Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, ‘tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.
But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men’s fellowship and wiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles.
You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant’s fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.
What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight;
You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night.
I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known.
You “have none but me,” you murmur, and I “leave you quite alone”?
Well then, kiss me, – since my mother left her blessing on my brow,
There has been a something wanting in my nature until now;
I can dimly comprehend it, – that I might have been more kind,
Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind.
I “have never failed in kindness”? No, we lived too high for strife,–
Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;
But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still
To the service of our science: you will further it? you will!
There are certain calculations I should like to make with you,
To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true;
And remember, “Patience, Patience,” is the watchword of a sage,
Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.
I have sown, like Tycho Brahé, that a greater man may reap;
But if none should do my reaping, 'twill disturb me in my sleep
So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name;
See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.
I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak;
Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak:
It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars,–
God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.
* Some sources refer to this poem as "The Old Astronomer To His Pupil" or variants, but the only copy of the original publication I've seen has "The Old Astronomer" alone as the title, so I've kept that here throughout.
No comments:
Post a Comment