I wish you a merry summer solstice. Gather up some Saint John’s Wort to don as you celebrate the longest day of the year—fourteen hours, fifty-five minutes, and thirty-six seconds in Cincinnati, fourteen hours, fifty-three minutes, and forty-eight seconds in Washington, and eighteen hours, fifty minutes, and nine seconds in Saint Petersburg. Those white nights in June!
On a less joyous note, Lawrence Auster posted mixed news yesterday. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer last June and has been undergoing treatment since. The disease is typically unrelenting, but Auster has experienced an uncommon recovery. I hope that my posts have encouraged this site’s readers to visit Auster’s View from the Right; his relatively obscure, one man blog has more insight and honesty in it than most all journals and media outfits. Please keep him in your prayers. May he have many more years to continue his work.
Given the solstice and the news about Auster, I offer a poem today from Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller, “Die Hoffnung.”
Es reden und träumen die Menschen viel
Von bessern künftigen Tagen,
Nach einem glücklichen goldenen Ziel
Sieht man sie rennen und jagen.
Die Welt wird alt und wird wieder jung,
Doch der Mensch hofft immer Verbesserung!
Die Hoffnung führt ihn ins Leben ein,
Sie umflattert den fröhlichen Knaben,
Den Jüngling begeistert ihr Zauberschein,
Sie wird mit dem Greis nicht begraben,
Denn beschließt er im Grabe den müden Lauf,
Noch am Grabe pflanzt er - die Hoffnung auf.
Es ist kein leerer schmeichelnder Wahn,
Erzeugt im Gehirne des Toren;
Im Herzen kündet es laut sich an,
Zu was Besserm sind wir geboren!
Und was die innere Stimme spricht,
Das täuscht die hoffende Seele nicht.
George MacDonald translated it into English for you Deutschensprachefürchtigen.
Men talk with their lips and dream with their soul
Of better days hitherward pacing;
To a happy, a glorious, golden goal
See them go running and chasing!
The world grows old and to youth returns,
But still for the Better man’s bosom burns.
It is Hope leads him into life and its light;
She haunts the little one merry;
The youth is inspired by her magic might;
Her the graybeard cannot bury:
When he finds at the grave his ended scope,
On the grave itself he planteth Hope.
She was never begotten in Folly’s brain,
An empty illusion, to flatter;
In the Heart she cries, aloud and plain:
We are born to something better!
And that which the inner voice doth say
The hoping spirit will not betray.
It is a happy summer day to read a pious Jock translate an impious Kraut.