Know from where you came and where you are going:
From where you came--from a putrid drop.
Where you are going--to a place
of dust, maggots and worms.

דע מאין באת, ולאן אתה הולך:
מאין באת, מטיפה סרוחה.
ולאן אתה הולך, למקום עפר רימה ותולעה.

Edgar Allan Poe

Dreamland (1844)

 By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule--
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE--out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters--lone and dead,
Their still waters--still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,--
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,--

By the mountains--near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,--
By the gray woods,--by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,--
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,--
By each spot the most unholy--
In each nook most melancholy,--

There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the past--
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by--
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth--and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region--
For the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis--oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not--dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only.

Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.

Δεν ελπίζω τίποτε. Δεν φοβούμαι τίποτε. Είμαι λεύτερος.
I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. I am free.

The Second Coming / William Butler Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Click play if you want to listen
to
"The Second Coming":

א משא דבר-יהוה, על-ישראל: נאום-יהוה, נוטה שמיים ויוסד ארץ, ויוצר רוח-אדם, בקרבו. ב הנה אנוכי שם את-ירושלים סף-רעל, לכל-העמים--סביב; וגם על-יהודה יהיה במצור, על-ירושלים. ג והיה ביום-ההוא אשים את-ירושלים אבן מעמסה, לכל-העמים--כל-עומסיה, שרוט יישרטו; ונאספו עליה, כול גויי הארץ. ד ביום ההוא נאום-יהוה, אכה כל-סוס בתימהון, ורוכבו, בשיגעון; ועל-בית יהודה, אפקח את-עיניי, וכול סוס העמים, אכה בעיוורון. ה ואמרו אלופי יהודה, בליבם: אמצה לי יושבי ירושלים, ביהוה צבאות אלוהיהם. ו ביום ההוא אשים את-אלופי יהודה ככיור אש בעצים, וכלפיד אש בעמיר, ואכלו על-ימין ועל-שמאל את-כל-העמים, סביב; וישבה ירושלים עוד תחתיה, בירושלים. ז והושיע יהוה את-אוהלי יהודה, בראשונה: למען לא-תגדל תפארת בית-דויד, ותפארת יושב ירושלים--על-יהודה. ח ביום ההוא, יגן יהוה בעד יושב ירושלים, והיה הנכשל בהם ביום ההוא, כדויד; ובית דויד כאלוהים, כמלאך יהוה לפניהם. ט והיה, ביום ההוא; אבקש, להשמיד את-כל-הגויים, הבאים, על-ירושלים. י ושפכתי על-בית דויד ועל יושב ירושלים, רוח חן ותחנונים, והביטו אליי, את אשר-דקרו; וספדו עליו, כמספד על-היחיד, והמר עליו, כהמר על-הבכור. יא ביום ההוא, יגדל המספד בירושלים, כמספד הדדרימון, בבקעת מגידון. יב וספדה הארץ, משפחות משפחות לבד: משפחת בית-דויד לבד, ונשיהם לבד--משפחת בית-נתן לבד, ונשיהם לבד. יג משפחת בית-לוי לבד, ונשיהם לבד; משפחת השמעי לבד, ונשיהם לבד. יד כול, המשפחות הנשארות--משפחות משפחות, לבד; ונשיהם, לבד.

The Epitaph of Asher ben Turiel, Toledo, Spain, 1349.

This stone is a memorial
That a later generation may know
That 'neath it lies hidden a pleasant bud,
A cherished child.
Perfect in knowledge,
A reader of the Bible,
A student of the Mishnah and Gemara.
Had learned from his father
What his father learned from his teachers:
The statutes of God and his laws.
Though only fifteen years in age,
He was like a man of eighty in knowledge.
More blessed than all sons: Asher-may he rest in Paradise -
The son of Joseph ben Turiel-may God comfort him,
He died of the plague, in the month of Tammuz, in the year 109 [June or July, 1349].
But a few days before his death
He established his home;
But yesternight the joyous voice of the bride and groom
Was turned to the voice of wailing.
[Apparently he had just been married.]
And the father is left, sad and aching.
May the God of heaven
Grant him comfort.
And send another child
To restore his soul.

"Contra vim Mortis
Non est medicamen in hortis."

(Chant Royal of the King of  Terrors:  Austin Dobson's Collected Poems, 1896)

He is the despots' Despot. All must bide,
Later or soon, the message of his might;
Princes and potentates their heads must hide,
Touched by the awful sigil of his right;
Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait
And pours a potion in his cup of state;
The stately Queen his bidding must obey;
No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray;
And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith—
"Let be, Sweet-heart, to junket and to play."
There is no king more terrible than Death.

The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride,
He draweth down; before the armèd Knight
With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride;
He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight;
The Burgher grave he beckons from debate;
He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate,
Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay;
No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay;
E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth,
Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay ...
There is no king more terrible than Death.

All things must bow to him. And woe betide
The Wine-bibber,—the Roisterer by night;
Him the feast-master, many bouts defied,
Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite;
Woe to the Lender at usurious rate,
The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate;
Woe to the Judge that selleth right for pay;
Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey
With creeping tread the traveller harryeth:—
These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay ...
There is no king more terrible than Death.

He hath no pity,—nor will be denied.
When the low hearth is garnishèd and bright,
Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide,
And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight;
He hath no pity for the scorned of fate:—
He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate,
Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may;
Nay, the tired Ploughman,—at the sinking ray,—
In the last furrow,—feels an icy breath,
And knows a hand hath turned the team astray ...
There is no king more terrible than Death.

He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride,
Blithe with the promise of her life's delight,
That wanders gladly by her Husband's side,
He with the clatter of his drum doth fright;
He scares the Virgin at the convent grate;
The Maid half-won, the lover passionate;
He hath no grace for weakness and decay:
The tender Wife, the Widow bent and gray,
The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth,—
All these he leadeth by the lonely way ...
There is no king more terrible than Death.

ENVOY.
Youth, for whose ear and monishing of late,
I sang of Prodigals and lost estate,
Have thou thy joy of living and be gay;
But know not less that there must come a day,—
Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth,—
When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,—
There is no king more terrible than Death.

Life's a jest, and all things show it;
I thought so once, and now I know it.

Gottfried Benn: Beautiful Childhood

The mouth of the girl who had laid so long
In the reeds looked so gnawed at.
When one broke open the breast,
The esophagus was so full of holes.
Finally in a bower under the diaphragm
I found a nest of young rats.
One little sister lay dead.
The others were living on liver and kidney,
Drank the cold blood and had
Spent a beautiful childhood there.
And beautiful and fast their death, too, came:
I threw them the lot of them into the water.
Oh, how the little snouts squeaked!
(Translator unknown)

 
And another translation.
 

Gottfried Benn: A fine childhood

The mouth of a girl who had long lain in the reeds
looked so chewed up.
When we broke open the torso, the esophagus was so full of holes.
Finally in a bower under the diaphragm
we found a nest of young rats.
One little sister rat lay dead.
The others were living off liver and kidney,
drinking the cold blood and enjoying
a fine childhood.
And fine and fast was their death too:
we threw the whole bunch into water.
Oh, how those little snouts squeaked!
(Translator unknown)
 

Gottfried Benn: Cycle

The lone molar of a whore
who had died unknown
had a gold filling.
As if by silent agreement
the others had fallen out.
But this one the morgue attendant knocked out
and pawned to go dancing.
For, he said,
only earth should return to earth.
(Translator unknown)

Edgar Lee Masters (1868–1950)
Spoon River Anthology

Silence

I HAVE  known the silence of the stars and of the sea,
And the silence of the city when it pauses,
And the silence of a man and a maid,
And the silence of the sick
When their eyes roam about the room.
And I ask: For the depths,
Of what use is language?
A beast of the field moans a few times
When death takes its young.
And we are voiceless in the presence of realities—
We cannot speak.

A curious boy asks an old soldier
Sitting in front of the grocery store,
“How did you lose your leg?”
And the old soldier is struck with silence,
Or his mind flies away
Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.
It comes back jocosely
And he says, “A bear bit it off.”
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier
Dumbly, feebly lives over
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,
The shrieks of the slain,
And himself lying on the ground,
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,
And the long days in bed.
But if he could describe it all
He would be an artist.
But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds
Which he could not describe.

There is the silence of a great hatred,
And the silence of a great love,
And the silence of an embittered friendship.
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,
Comes with visions not to be uttered
Into a realm of higher life.
There is the silence of defeat.
There is the silence of those unjustly punished;
And the silence of the dying whose hand
Suddenly grips yours.
There is the silence between father and son,
When the father cannot explain his life,
Even though he be misunderstood for it.

There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.
There is the silence of those who have failed;
And the vast silence that covers
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.
There is the silence of Lincoln,
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.
And the silence of Napoleon
After Waterloo.
And the silence of Jeanne d’Arc
Saying amid the flames, “Blessed Jesus”—
Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope.
And there is the silence of age,
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it
In words intelligible to those who have not lived
The great range of life.

And there is the silence of the dead.
If we who are in life cannot speak
Of profound experiences,
Why do you marvel that the dead
Do not tell you of death?
Their silence shall be interpreted
As we approach them.

Eugene Carman

RHODES’ slave! Selling shoes and gingham,
Flour and bacon, overalls, clothing, all day long
For fourteen hours a day for three hundred and thirteen days
For more than twenty years.
Saying “Yes’m” and “Yes, sir” and “Thank you”
A thousand times a day, and all for fifty dollars a month.
Living in this stinking room in the rattle-trap “Commercial.”
And compelled to go to Sunday School, and to listen
To the Rev. Abner Peet one hundred and four times a year
For more than an hour at a time,
Because Thomas Rhodes ran the church
As well as the store and the bank.
So while I was tying my neck-tie that morning
I suddenly saw myself in the glass:
My hair all gray, my face like a sodden pie.
So I cursed and cursed: You damned old thing!
You cowardly dog! You rotten pauper!
You Rhodes’ slave! Till Roger Baughman
Thought I was having a fight with some one,
And looked through the transom just in time
To see me fall on the floor in a heap
From a broken vein in my head.