A Viagem e o Naufrágio

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WHAT IS LIFE?
Is it life to see the hours
Of youth's gay spring unheeded fly,
To droop in sadness, as the flowers,
We nurtured early, fade and die?
Is it life to feel the glow
Of love warm springing in our breast,
Chilled in its currents, as they flow,
The moment when we felt most blest?
To feel that childhood's joys are past,
That sorrowing age is stealing on,
No hope to cheer our heart at last
When all except our cares are gone.
No scene, no light of other days,
Of early joys remote from strife,
By which through memory to gaze
On youth awhile,—this is not life.

To feel a spirit in us move,
Some kindred tie with man to own,
To know that there are those who love,
And smile on us when others frown.
To feel that youth was not unblest,
Nor manhood bowed with hopeless grief,
When age shall find our souls at rest
In hopes of Heaven. This—This is life.

Desde que seja permitido chegar a essa escala da jornada e os rochedos malignos não quebrem os frágeis cascos, ou as vagas insensíveis os não atirem contra as pedras assassinas...
E na condição de os limites fechados que deveriam proteger não se transformarem nos próprios cadafalsos onde as formas mais vulneráveis fiquem irremediavelmente condenadas a arder.
Pois, para quem só se comova perante as atribulações próprias, num figuradíssimo sentido, essas mortes inglórias de inocentes acabarão por ser uma prática de Vodu contra os que cá ficam

A pintura é «Vida», de Alex Levin.
O Poema, de Edmund D. Covington.