Epistemological Relativism

After reading several Longfellow poems with topics ranging from children, life, death and faith I’m beginning to have a certain affinity for the fellow (pun intended). I don’t mind at all if his poems were written for the masses as some have claimed. When I read a poem, I am the only one responding to his words at that moment in time. There is nobody else the poet is speaking to other than me. Can it really be any other way?

My favorite stanza has got to be sixth. I try to focus on what I can do in the present. Alas, my focus seldom turns into action. So many times we linger in the past or wander into the future that we forget about our responsibilities to act in the present moment. Longfellow clearly understand this challenge and our natural inclination to do nothing. After reading this poem I feel compelled or inspired to continue acting in the present, to make the most of the time that we have here and to get to a place where I can, just maybe, leave “footprints on the sands of time” for someone to benefit from.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,–act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;–

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A Psalm of Life

General, Thoughts Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Poetry

We have a fairly involved night-time ritual. First we read selections from Bennett’s Book of Virtues, then a Bible story or two from Egermeier’s Bible Story Book, then several pages from our current book (at this time it is MacDonald’s The Golden Key) and finally our Compline Office from Tickle’s The Divine Hours. Bennett’s compilation has all sorts of interesting stories and poems. The selection below is one my children enjoyed. Their enjoyment of this poem comes primarily from their ability to act it out when we put them to sleep!

BETWEEN the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupations,
That is known as the Children’s Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O’er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,  The Children’s Hour

Books Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Poetry

Here is a poem that I’ve been contemplating for the past several days.

The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveller hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;
The little waves, with their soft, white hands,
Efface the footprints in the sands,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveller to the shore,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls

After several readings I’m beginning to think this poem has something to say about Death. I have a few reasons for this conclusion. The coming morning, instead of arousing traditional feelings of life, hope and renewal, bring into focus the termination of a journey. The traveler will never return to the shore. I think this reversal, using the morning to speak of some loss instead of renewal, is very powerful. The tide and its cyclical and almost timeless nature contrasts well with the fate of the traveler. The tide continues in perpetuity, but the traveler cannot. The traveler is finite and limited. The footprints emphasize this fact. The memory, life and activities of the traveler fade quickly away, but the tide repeats its playful and deliberate act.

I’m not sure if my conclusion is accurate, but it does seem reasonable. Of course, more examination is necessary. Why, for example, do the waves have soft, white hands? Where are there steeds and a hostler? I imagine that as these questions are answered my conclusion may seem more or less accurate. What do you think? Am I “right”? Better still, what does it mean to be right?

–UPDATE: I found an audio link to The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls on archive.org. Enjoy!

Books, General, Thoughts Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Poetry