Friday, April 29, 2016

Poems & Reflections On Life By Hermann Hesse:Stages***Lying In Grass

Chris Spheeris - Eros

What could I say to you that would be of value, except that perhaps
you seek too much,that as a result of your seeking you cannot find.
When someone is seeking,it happens quite easily that he only sees
the thing that he is seeking;that he is unable to find anything,unable
to absorb anything, because he is only thinking of the thing he is
seeking, because he has a goal, because he is obsessed with his goal.

Seeking means: to have a goal;but finding means:to be free,to be
receptive,to have no goal.You,O worthy one,are perhaps indeed
a seeker, for in striving towards your goal,you do not see many
things that are under your nose.
Hermann Hesse

Hermann Hesse

As every flower fades and as all youth
Departs, so life at every stage,
So every virtue, so our grasp of truth,
Blooms in its day and may not last forever.

Since life may summon us at every age,
Be ready, heart, for parting, new endeavour,
Be ready bravely and without remorse
To find new light that old ties cannot give.

In all beginnings dwells a magic force
For guarding us and helping us to live.
Serenely let us move to distant places
And let no sentiments of home detain us
But lifts us stage by stage to wider spaces.

If we accept a home of our own making,
Familiar habit makes for indolence.
We must prepare for parting and leave-taking
Or else remain the slaves of permanence.

Even the hour of our death may send
Us speeding on to fresh and newer spaces,
And life may summon us to newer races.
So be it, heart: bid farewell without end.

Lying In Grass
Hermann Hesse

Is this everything now, the quick delusions of flowers,
And the down colors of the bright summer meadow,
The soft blue spread of heaven, the bees' song,
Is this everything only a god's
Groaning dream,
The cry of unconscious powers for deliverance?
The distant line of the mountain,
That beautifully and courageously rests in the blue,
Is this too only a convulsion,
Only the wild strain of fermenting nature,
Only grief, only agony, only meaningless fumbling,
Never resting, never a blessed movement?

No! Leave me alone, you impure dream
Of the world in suffering!
The dance of tiny insects cradles you in an evening radiance,
The bird's cry cradles you,
A breath of wind cools my forehead
With consolation.
Leave me alone, you unendurably old human grief!
Let it all be pain.
Let it all be suffering, let it be wretched-
But not this one sweet hour in the summer,
And not the fragrance of the red clover,
And not the deep tender pleasure
In my soul.

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