The River of Life

The Lamp of Life

by Amy Lowell

Always we are following a light,

Always the light recedes; with groping hands

We stretch toward this glory, while the lands

We journey through are hidden from our sight

Dim and mysterious, folded deep in night,

We care not, all our utmost need demands

Is but the light, the light! So still it stands

Surely our own if we exert our might.

Fool! Never can'st thou grasp this fleeting gleam,

Its glowing flame would die if it were caught,

Its value is that it doth always seem

But just a little farther on. Distraught,

But lighted ever onward, we are brought

Upon our way unknowing, in a dream.

The River of Life

by Thomas Campbell

The more we live, more brief appear

Our life's succeeding stages;

A day to childhood seems a year,

And years like passing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth,

Ere passion yet disorders,

Steals lingering like a river smooth

Along its grassy borders.

But as the careworn cheek grows wan,

And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,

Ye stars, that measure life to man,

Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and breath,

And life itself is vapid,

Why, as we reach the Falls of Death

Feel we its tide more rapid?

It may be strange—yet who would change

Time's course to slower speeding,

When one by one our friends have gone,

And left our bosoms bleeding?

Heaven gives our years of fading strength

Indemnifying fleetness;

And those of youth, a seeming length,

Proportion'd to their sweetness.

My Philosophy of Life

by John Ashbery

Just when I thought there wasn't room enough

for another thought in my head, I had this great idea--

call it a philosophy of life, if you will.Briefly,

it involved living the way philosophers live,

according to a set of principles. OK, but which ones?

That was the hardest part, I admit, but I had a

kind of dark foreknowledge of what it would be like.

Everything, from eating watermelon or going to the bathroom

or just standing on a subway platform, lost in thought

for a few minutes, or worrying about rain forests,

would be affected, or more precisely, inflected

by my new attitude.I wouldn't be preachy,

or worry about children and old people, except

in the general way prescribed by our clockwork universe.

Instead I'd sort of let things be what they are

while injecting them with the serum of the new moral climate

I thought I'd stumbled into, as a stranger

accidentally presses against a panel and a bookcase slides back,

revealing a winding staircase with greenish light

somewhere down below, and he automatically steps inside

and the bookcase slides shut, as is customary on such occasions.

At once a fragrance overwhelms him--not saffron, not lavender,

but something in between.He thinks of cushions, like the one

his uncle's Boston bull terrier used to lie on watching him

quizzically, pointed ear-tips folded over. And then the great rush

is on.Not a single idea emerges from it.It's enough

to disgust you with thought.But then you remember something

William James

wrote in some book of his you never read--it was fine, it had the

fineness,

the powder of life dusted over it, by chance, of course, yet

still looking

for evidence of fingerprints. Someone had handled it

even before he formulated it, though the thought was his and

his alone.

It's fine, in summer, to visit the seashore.

There are lots of little trips to be made.

A grove of fledgling aspens welcomes the traveler.Nearby

are the public toilets where weary pilgrims have carved

their names and addresses, and perhaps messages as well,

messages to the world, as they sat

and thought about what they'd do after using the toilet

and washing their hands at the sink, prior to stepping out

into the open again.Had they been coaxed in by principles,

and were their words philosophy, of however crude a sort?

I confess I can move no farther along this train of thought--

something's blocking it.Something I'm

not big enough to see over.Or maybe I'm frankly scared.

What was the matter with how I acted before?

But maybe I can come up with a compromise--I'll let

things be what they are, sort of.In the autumn I'll put up jellies

and preserves, against the winter cold and futility,

and that will be a human thing, and intelligent as well.

I won't be embarrassed by my friends' dumb remarks,

or even my own, though admittedly that's the hardest part,

as when you are in a crowded theater and something you say

riles the spectator in front of you, who doesn't even like the idea

of two people near him talking together. Well he's

got to be flushed out so the hunters can have a crack at him--

this thing works both ways, you know. You can't always

be worrying about others and keeping track of yourself

at the same time.That would be abusive, and about as much fun

as attending the wedding of two people you don't know.

Still, there's a lot of fun to be had in the gaps between ideas.

That's what they're made for!Now I want you to go out there

and enjoy yourself, and yes, enjoy your philosophy of life, too.

They don't come along every day. Look out!There's a big one...