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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
The House of the Titans and Other Poems by George William Russell (AE) is a captivating collection of mystical and thought-provoking poems. Drawing upon themes of spirituality, the cosmos, and the human soul, Russell's work weaves a poetic journey through the mysteries of existence and the divine. With vivid imagery and a profound connection to nature, these poems evoke a deep sense of wonder and contemplation. Each piece invites the reader to explore the transcendental and timeless realms that lie beyond the physical world. Ideal for lovers of poetic philosophy and spiritual exploration, this collection is a literary treasure that inspires reflection.
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Table of Contents
The House of the Titans and Other Poems
To Osborn Bergin
The House Of The Titans
Lost Talisman
Comfort
A Mountain Tarn
Wood Ways
Distraction
Time Spirits
Two Magics
Defeat
The Dark Lady
Earth Spirit
The Iron Age Departs
Karma
An Idle Reverie
First Love
Incarnation
Innocence
Cabaret
Museum
Fountains
The River
Eros
Two Voices
What Home?
Undertones
Growth
To One Who Wanted A Philosophy From Me
The Spell
A Farewell
Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
The House of the Titans and Other Poems
To Osborn Bergin
Dear Osborn, not only because you are my friend,
But that you are one of those who learned
An ancient speech for us, who rediscovered
Myths, once the scriptures of the northern world,
I bring this poem, half dream, half vision, to you.
I know, incredulous scholar, you will lift
Ironic eyebrows as you read the tale.
But being poet yourself you will forgive
Unto the poet things unpardonable
Done by a scholar. Yet I would defend
My telling of the tale. These myths were born
Out of the spirit of man and drew their meaning
From that unplumbed profundity. I think
In after ages they will speak to us
With deeper voices and meanings. In one age
Men turn to the world about them and forget
Their old descent from heaven. In another
They storm the heavens with supplication. Some
Have found the glittering gates to open. I
Beat many times upon the gates, but was not
Like those who kept them mightily apart
Until they entered. Yet from fleeting voices
And visionary lights a meaning came
That made my myth contemporary. And those
Who read may find titans and king within
Themselves. And, if they ponder further, they may,
Not in my story, but on the shining heights
Of their own spirit, hear those lordlier voices,
The ageless shepherds of the starry flocks,
They whose majestic meditation is
The music of being; unto those who hear it
Sweeter than bells upon a darkening plain
When the dim fleeces move unto the fold.
The House Of The Titans
The day was dead, and in the titans' hall
The darkness gathered like some monstrous beast
Prowling from pillar unto pillar: yet
The brazen dais and the golden throne
Made a fierce twilight flickering with stars
Far in the depths. And there the sky-born king,
Nuada, now king of earth, sat motionless,
A fading radiance round his regal brows,
The sceptre of his waning rule unused,
His heart darkened, because the god within,
Slumbering or unremembering, was mute,
And no more holy fires were litten there.
Still as the king, and pale and beautiful,
A slender shape of ivory and gold,
One white hand on the throne, beside him stood
Armid, the wise child of the healing god.
The king sat bowed: but she with solemn eyes
Questioned the gloom where vast and lumbering shades,
A titan brood, the first born of the earth,
Cried with harsh voices and made an uproar there
In the king's dun oblivious of the king.
While Armid gazed upon them came a pain
That stirred the spirit stillness of her eyes,
And darkened them with grief. Then came her words
"Tell me our story, god-descended king,
For we have dwindled down, and from ourselves
Have passed away, and have forgotten all."
And at her calling "God-descended king"
His head sank lower as if the glorious words
Had crowned his brow with a too burning flame
Or mocked him with vain praise. He answered not,
For memory to the sky-born king was but
The mocking shadow of past magnificence,
Of starry dynasties slow-fading out,
The sorrow that bound him to the lord of light
He was, ere he had sunken in red clay
His deity. The immortal phantom had not yet
Revealed to him the gentler face it wears,
The tender shadow of long vanquished pain
And brightening wisdom, unto him who nears
The Land of Promise, who, in the eve of time,
Can look upon his image at the dawn
And falter not. And as King Nuada sat
With closed eyes he saw the ancient heavens,
The thrones of awe, the rainbow shining round
The ever-living in their ageless youth,
And myriads of calm immortal eyes
That vexed him when he met the wild beast glare
And sullen gloom of the dark nation he ruled,
For whom self-exiled, irrevocably
He was outcast among the gods. And then
The words of Armid came more thronged with grief
"O, you, our star of knowledge, unto you
We look for light, to you alone.
All these Fall in that ancient anarchy again
When sorrowing you put the sceptre by.
Would not your sorrow shared melt in our love?
Or our confederate grief might grow to power,
And shake the gods or demons who decreed
This darkness for us? Or if the tale forbade
All hope, there is a sorrowful delight
In coming to the very end of all,
The pain which is the utmost life can bear,
Where dread is done, and only what we know
Must be endured, and there is peace in pain.
I would know all, O god-descended king!"
That tribe of monstrous and misshapen folk
Whose clamor overlaid her speech, and made
Its music a low murmur, had grown still
Far down the hall. And at the close her words
Came clear and purely, mingling with a voice
And harp that hushed the titans. Ah, that voice
That made the giants' ponderous bulk to faint
And bent the shaggy heads low on great hands,
While over the dark crouching figures towered
Angus the Young, the well-beloved god,
With proud tossed golden hair that glittered o'er
The beautiful bare arms that caught the harp,
And the bright form went swaying as he played.
And there were scarlet birds, a phantom throng
That dashed against the strings, and fled away
In misty flame amid the brooding crowd,
And vanished; while the colored dusk grew warm
To the imagination, and was dense
With dark heart-melting eyes, alluring lips,
With milk-white bosoms, and with glimmering arms
That drew the soul unto their folding love.
And the tormented giants groaned and lay
Prone on the hall, or stretched out hairy arms
With knotted fingers feeling for the feet
Of him who played. But the enchanter laughed,
The pride of the brute tamer in his eyes,
And looked at Armid. She had hidden her face
To shut the vision, for he seemed no more
Before her, but a fleshless creature stalked
With bony fingers clutching at the strings,
And all the giant nation lust-consumed
Were dwindling out. "Is there no hope," she cried,
"For them, for us; or must we still forget,
And have not even memory we were gods,
And these drop to that lightless anarchy
From which they rose." Her tears were falling fast,
The gods had learned to weep, the earth's first gift.
Her weeping roused at length that stony king,
Whose face from its own shadow lifted up
Was like the white uprising of the moon.
"O" better that remembrance be no more,
Than we whose feet are tied unto this world
Should seek in phantasy to climb the thrones
Where once we sat and ruled the stars, and all
The solemn cyclic motion of these spheres.
And will the younger gods who took our seats
Call to us and descend to give us place,
Us who are feeble, who have lost our brightness,
Whom only these acknowledge; these alone
When by our arts we change their hearts' desires,
Masking their hideous shapes with airy forms,
With sheeny silver, lustrous pearl, pale gold,
