Saluting Our Graduates on Friday the 13th!

Dear Family, Friends, & Colleagues:

This weekend, thousands of students will be graduating from the University of Illinois. There will be celebrations and congratulations all around for academic accomplishments and honors well deserved. There will also be a lot of questions and wonderings about the future. What will students do after their graduation? Will they enter the job market in the “real world,” or will they continue their education, either here in Champaign-Urbana or elsewhere? Even more importantly, what kind of world will these intrepid young scholars build for us – and for their inheritors? What kinds of leaders will they become, and what kind of advice would I give them for their journey?

As I was reflecting on these questions, I recalled a poem based on Greek mythology about the wanderings of Odysseus (a/k/a Ulysses), a Greek warrior-hero who returned from the Trojan War by a very circuitous route on the high seas that lasted a decade. He encountered cannibals, enchantments, monsters, and a hostile Poseidon (the Olympian ruler of the oceans) along the way, but he survived (and thrived) through exercising his leadership skills and keeping calm under pressure. When Odysseus finally arrived at Ithaca, his island kingdom, he was indeed a very weary but also a wiser man, based on all that he had learned from his far-flung adventures.

“Ithaca” (1911)

By Constantine Cavafy (1863-1933)

When you set sail for Ithaca,

Wish for the road to be long,

Full of adventures, full of knowledge.

The cannibals and the Cyclops,

An angry Poseidon — do not fear.

You will never find such on your path,

If your thoughts remain lofty, and your spirit

And body are touched by a fine emotion.

The cannibals and the Cyclops,

A savage Poseidon you will not encounter,

If you do not carry them within your spirit,

If your spirit does not place them before you.

Wish for the road to be long.

Many the summer mornings to be when,

With what pleasure, what joy,

You will enter ports seen for the first time.

Stop at Phoenician markets,

And purchase the fine goods,

Mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

And exquisite perfumes of all sorts,

The most delicate fragrances you can find.

To many Egyptian cities you must go,

To learn and learn from the cultivated.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.

To arrive there is your final destination.

But do not hurry the voyage at all.

It is better for it to last many years,

And when old to rest in the island,

Rich with all you have gained on the way,

Not expecting Ithaca to offer you wealth.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful journey.

Without her, you would not have set out on the road.

Nothing more does she have to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.

Wise as you have become, with so much experience,

You must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

BONUS POEM!

Here are some verses about Odysseus’ further adventures, in his later years, for those of us who have already graduated but still yearn for adventure on the high seas of lifelong learning.

“Ulysses” (1842)

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honored of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untraveled world, whose margin fades
Forever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle —
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me —
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Happy Commencement Weekend! :)

Rob

Getting Ready for May Day!

Dear Family, Friends, & Colleagues:

May Day is this coming Sunday! Jack Frost has gone North for his summer vacation! We can enjoy flowers, birds, and trees as the springtime exuberantly celebrates this delightful holiday! Here are some poems to help you get started with your May Day celebration, with a nod to Arbor Day (tomorrow, April 29^th) to start us off.

“Trees” (1914)

By  Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

"To A Butterfly" (1801)

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

I've watched you now a full half-hour;
Self-poised upon that yellow flower
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless! -- not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.

Stay near me -- do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father's family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey: -- with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her, feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.

“The Flowers”

By Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)

From A Child's Garden of Verses (1885)

All the names I know from nurse:

Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse,

Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock,

And the Lady Hollyhock.

Fairy places, fairy things,

Fairy woods where the wild bee wings,

Tiny trees for tiny dames --

These must all be fairy names!

Tiny woods below whose boughs

Shady fairies weave a house;

Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme,

Where the braver fairies climb!

Fair are grown-up people's trees,

But the fairest woods are these;

Where, if I were not so tall,

I should live for good and all.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Rob

Poems for Patriots' Day: 4/18/2016

Dear Family, Friends, & Colleagues:

In addition to the sacred festivals that dance through different dates on the calendar each year, the month of April also has a patriotic holiday dedicated to the remembrance of the epoch-making events that led to the founding of our nation 240 years ago. In this edition of Quotemail, I am featuring poems about Patriots’ Day, a New England observance that takes place on the third Monday of April. In these memorable verses, both Longfellow and Emerson – two New England poets – commemorate the first battle of the American Revolution on April 19, 1775, and the significant adventure leading up to it on the night before.

“Paul Revere’s Ride” (1860)

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the somber rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and somber and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,---
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

“Concord Hymn” (1837)

By Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare,
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

You can watch an animated music video based on this poem (Schoolhouse Rock’s “The Shot Heard Round the World”) @ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y6ikO6LMxF4.

Enjoy the springtime weather outside this weekend! :)

Until next time –

Rob

Springtime Poems for April Fool's Day: 3/32/2016!

Dear Family, Friends & Colleagues:

Today is April Fool’s Day – hence the unusual designation of today’s date in the header of this message. :)

With the arrival of April in Central Illinois, springtime kicks into high gear, and we can observe many delightful signs of spring all around us. Here are some springtime poems from my favorite Hoosier poet, Evaleen Stein (1863-1923), a renowned author of children’s books and the unofficial Poet Laureate of Purdue University.

Dandelion

by Evaleen Stein

Hey-a-day-a-day, my dear! Dandelion time!
Come, and let us make for them a pretty little rhyme!

See the meadows twinkling now, beautiful and bright
As the sky when through the blue shine the stars at night!

Once upon a time, folks say, mighty kings of old
Met upon a splendid field called "The Cloth of Gold."

But, we wonder, could it be there was ever seen
Brighter gold than glitters now in our meadows green?

Dandelions, dandelions, shining through the dew,
Let the kings have Cloth of Gold, but let us have you!

The First Red-Bird

by Evaleen Stein

I heard a song at daybreak,
So honey-sweet and clear,
The essence of all joyous things
Seemed mingling in its cheer.

The frosty world about me
I searched with eager gaze,
But all was slumber-bound and wrapped
In violet-tinted haze.

Then suddenly a sunbeam
Shot slanting o'er the hill,
And once again from out the sky
I heard that honied trill.

And there upon a poplar,
Poised at its topmost height,
I saw a little singer clad
In scarlet plumage bright.

The poplar branches quivered,
By dawn winds lightly blown,
And like a breeze-swept poppy-flower
The red-bird rocked and shone.

The blue sky, and his feathers
Flashed o'er by golden light,
Oh, all my heart with rapture thrilled,
It was so sweet a sight!

Up, Little Ones!

by Evaleen Stein

A robin redbreast, fluting there
Upon the apple-bough,
Is telling all the world how fair
Are apple-blossoms now;
The honey-dew its sweetness spills
From cuckoo-cups, and all
The crocuses and daffodils
Are drest for festival!

Such pretty things are to be seen,
Such pleasant things to do,
The April earth it is so green,
The April sky so blue,
The path from dawn to even-song
So joyous is to-day,
Up, little ones! and dance along
The lilac-scented way!

Next time: more springtime poetry selections old and new! :)

Happy April Fool’s Day!

Rob