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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508997" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>De Rerum Virtute</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here is the skull of a man: a man’s thoughts and emotions <br>Have moved under the thin bone vault like clouds <br>Under the blue one: love and desire and pain, <br>Thunderclouds of wrath and white gales of fear <br>Have hung inside here: and sometimes the curious desire of knowing <br>Values and purpose and the causes of things <br>Has coasted like a little observer air-plane over the images <br>That filled this mind: it never discovered much, <br>And now all’s empty, a bone bubble, a blown-out eggshell. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>II. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">That’s what it’s like: for the egg too has a mind, <br>Doing what our able chemists will never do, <br>Building the body of a hatchling, choosing among the proteins: <br>These for the young wing-muscles, these for the great <br>Crystalline eyes, these for the flighty nerves and brain: <br>Choosing and forming: a limited but superhuman intelligence, <br>Prophetic of the future and aware of the past: <br>The hawk’s egg will make a hawk, and the serpent’s <br>A gliding serpent: but each with a little difference <br>From its ancestors—and slowly, if it works, the race <br>Forms a new race: that also is a part of the plan <br>Within the egg. I believe the first living cell <br>Had echoes of the future in it, and felt <br>Direction and the great animals, the deep green forest <br>And whale’s-track sea; I believe this globed earth <br>Not all by chance and fortune brings forth her broods, <br>But feels and chooses. And the Galaxy, the firewheel <br>On which we are pinned, the whirlwind of stars in which our sun is one dust-grain, one electron, this giant atom of the universe <br>Is not blind force, but fulfils its life and intends its courses. “All things are full of God. <br>Winter and summer, day and night, war and peace are God.” </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>III. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus the thing stands; the labor and the games go on— <br>What for? What for? —Am I a God that I should know? <br>Men live in peace and happiness; men live in horror <br>And die howling. Do you think the blithe sun <br>Is ignorant that black waste and beggarly blindness trail him like hounds, <br>And will have him at last? He will be strangled <br>Among his dead satellites, remembering magnificence. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>IV. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I stand on the cliff at Sovranes creek-mouth. <br>Westward beyond the raging water and the bent shoulder of the world <br>The bitter futile war in Korea proceeds, like an idiot <br>Prophesying. It is too hot in mind <br>For anyone, except God perhaps, to see beauty in it. Indeed it is hard to see beauty <br>In any of the acts of man: but that means the acts of a sick microbe <br>On a satellite of a dust-grain twirled in a whirlwind <br>In the world of stars .... <br>Something perhaps may come of him; in any event <br>He can’t last long. —Well: I am short of patience <br>Since my wife died ... and this era of spite and hate-filled half-worlds <br>Gets to the bone. I believe that man too is beautiful, <br>But it is hard to see, and wrapped up in falsehoods. Michael Angelo and the Greek sculptors— <br>How they flattered the race! Homer and Shakespeare— <br>How they flattered the race! </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>V. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">One light is left us: the beauty of things, not men; <br>The immense beauty of the world, not the human world. <br>Look—and without imagination, desire nor dream—directly <br>At the mountains and sea. Are they not beautiful? <br>These plunging promontories and flame-shaped peaks <br>Stopping the sombre stupendous glory, the storm-fed ocean? Look at the Lobos Rocks off the shore, <br>With foam flying at their flanks, and the long sea-lions <br>Couching on them. Look at the gulls on the cliff wind, <br>And the soaring hawk under the cloud-stream— <br>But in the sage-brush desert, all one sun-stricken <br>Color of dust, or in the reeking tropical rain-forest, <br>Or in the intolerant north and high thrones of ice—is the earth not beautiful? <br>Nor the great skies over the earth? <br>The beauty of things means virtue and value in them. <br>It is in the beholder’s eye, not the world? Certainly. <br>It is the human mind’s translation of the transhuman <br>Intrinsic glory. It means that the world is sound, <br>Whatever the sick microbe does. But he too is part of it.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robinson+Jeffers">Robinson Jeffers</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508997" data-title="De Rerum Virtute de Robinson Jeffers" data-description="I. 

Here is the skull of a man: a man’s thoughts and emotions 
Have moved under the thin bone vault like clouds 
Under the blue one: love and desire and pain, 
Thunderclouds of wrath and white gales of fear 
Have hung inside here: and sometimes..."></div>
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