Sunday Letter
J.S. Legg
there is no division

Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year,
I felt a door opening in me and I entered
the clarity of early morning.

One after another my former lives were departing,
like ships, together with their sorrow.

And the countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas
assigned to my brush came closer,
ready now to be described better than they were before.

I was not separated from people,
grief and pity joined us.
We forget—I kept saying—that we are all children of the King.

For where we come from there is no division
into Yes and No, into is, was, and will be.

We were miserable, we used no more than a hundredth part
of the gift we received for our long journey.

Moments from yesterday and from centuries ago—
a sword blow, the painting of eyelashes before a mirror
of polished metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel
staving its hull against a reef—they dwell in us,
waiting for a fulfillment.

I knew, always, that I would be a worker in the vineyard,
as are all men and women living at the same time,
whether they are aware of it or not.

— Czesław Miłosz, “Late Ripeness”

there is no division
Sunday Letter
J.S. Legg
the sharp axe of light

Out of the wood of thoughts that grows by night
To be cut down by the sharp axe of light,—
Out of the night, two cocks together crow,
Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow:
And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand,
Heralds of splendour, one at either hand,
Each facing each as in a coat of arms:
The milkers lace their boots up at the farms.

— Edward Thomas, “Cock-Crow”

the sharp axe of light
Sunday Letter
J.S. Legg
when soft voices die

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.  

— Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Music, when soft voices die”

when soft voices die
Sunday Letter
J.S. Legg
These are the days

These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look. 

These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, –
A blue and gold mistake. 

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief, 

Till ranks of seed their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join, 

Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine! 

— Emily Dickinson, “Indian Summer”

These are the days
Sunday Letter, Sale
J.S. Legg
that last rosebud

In my Autumn garden I was fain
     To mourn among my scattered roses;
     Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses
To Autumn’s languid sun and rain
When all the world is on the wane!
     Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June,
     Nor heard the nightingale in tune.

Broad-faced asters by my garden walk,
     You are but coarse compared with roses:
     More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses,
Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk,
That least and last which cold winds balk;
     A rose it is though least and last of all,
     A rose to me though at the fall.

— Christina Rossetti, “October Garden”

that last rosebud

Collected Works

,

thinking, full of light

,
thinking, full of light

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

—Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Ozymandias”

, ,

not to lose reality

, ,

When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
'Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!' O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
'Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!' O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.

—William Shakespeare, "Song: Spring" from Love's Labour Lost

More Than a Play of Fancy
Spirit in the Works of William Shakespeare
Willem Frederik Veltman

The undisputed virtuosity of William Shakespeare’s theatrical works—and their perennial relationship to the experience of being human—assures their continued importance in the cultural life of the twenty-first century. However, Shakespeare is a subject of interest beyond the theater; his life and work remain among the foremost themes of literary and historical scholarship.
Using seven of his most loved and performed plays as examples, Willem Frederik Veltman uncovers the spiritual reality that hides—in full view, as an open secret—in Shakespeare’s world of images.
This exciting study looks at The Merchant of Venice; A Midsummer Night’s Dream; Macbeth; Hamlet; As You Like It; The Winter’s Tale; and The Tempest. READ MORE

Also by Willem Frederik Veltman

Who Wrote Bacon?
William Shakespeare, Francis Bacon, and James I
Richard Ramsbotham

For years, a popular debate has been raging about whether Shakespeare was really the author of the many plays and poems published under his name. Doubters argue that Shakespeare could not have accomplished such a great feat, pointing instead to other well-known figures. Richard Ramsbotham offers a completely different perspective by reexamining the available evidence and by introducing unexplored aspects of Rudolf Steiner’s spiritual-scientific research. READ MORE

The Time Is at Hand!
The Rosicrucian Nature of Goethe's Fairy Tale of the Green Snake and the Beautiful Lily and the Mystery Dramas of Rudolf Steiner
Paul Marshall Allen and Joan deRis Allen

In 1795 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe produced his tale of tales—The fairytale of "The Green Snake and the Beautiful Lily." An initiatory fable of transformation, the tale arose out of the Rosicrucian, alchemical impulses that play an important role in Faust and Goethe's other writings. The authors begin by placing the fairytale against the background of Goethe's life and cultural setting. They then discuss its importance in the development of Steiner's spiritual science. Finally, they describe its visual language, profound mystical insights, and relevance for us today. READ MORE

From The Collected Works of Rudolf Steiner

Anthroposophy in the Light of Goethe’s Faust
Volume One of Spiritual–Scientific Commentaries on Goethe’s Faust
Translated by Burley Channer
18 lectures, various cities, 1910–1916 (CW 272); extracts from Rudolf Steiner's writings on Faust (CW 65, 139)
READ MORE

Goethe’s Faust in the Light of Anthroposophy
Volume Two of Spiritual–Scientific Commentaries on Goethe’s Faust
Translated by Burley Channer
13 lectures in Dornach and Prague, Sept. 30, 1916 - Jan. 19, 1919 (CW 273); Excerpts from various texts and two poems by Goethe
READ MORE

For Goethe as a young man, Shakespeare became the genius who showed him the way to the “New World,” because in giving shape to his characters, Shakespeare understood how to oscillate between the necessity of natural law and freedom of thought—the same balancing act that modern humanity must feel if it is not to lose reality in abstract thought. 

—Rudolf Steiner, from "Faust and Hamlet," lecture of April 2, 1922, in Goethe's Faust in the Light of Anthroposophy (CW 273)

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