Margaret’s Song

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  There was a king in Thule,  True even to the grave;  To whom his dying mistress  A golden beaker gave.  At every feast he drained it,  Naught was to him so dear,  And often as he drained it,  Gush’d from his eyes the tear.  When death came, unrepining  His cities o’er he told;  All to his heir resigning,  Except his cup of gold.  With many a knightly vassal  At a royal feast sat he,  In yon proud hall ancestral,  In his castle o’er the sea.  Up stood the jovial monarch,  And quaff’d his last life’s glow,  Then hurled the hallow’d goblet  Into the flood below.  He saw it splashing, drinking,  And plunging in the sea;  His eyes meanwhile were sinking,  And never again drank he. “Margaret’s Song” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832) in “Faust. Part I.”

No Worries

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A recent e-mail sits in my "In-box" tagged with a gold star. The message is so incredibly profound, so complicatedly simple that I can't archive it. Not yet. I need it under my fingernails. The e-mail tells the story of John "Max" Staniforth who in 1916 wrote a letter home describing how he and fellow World War I soldiers of the 16th Irish Division dealt with the reality of their war-time situation on the Western Front. Staniforth wrote:

“If you are a soldier, you are either:

(1) at home or (2) at the Front.

If (1), you needn’t worry.

If (2), you are either (1) out of the danger zone or (2) in it.

If (1), you needn’t worry.

If (2), you are either (1) not hit, or (2) hit.

If (1), you needn’t worry.

If (2) you [your wounds] are either (1) trivial or (2) dangerous.

If (1), you needn’t worry.

If (2), you either (1) live or (2) die.

If you live, you needn’t worry: and – If you die, YOU CAN’T WORRY!!

So why worry?"

The choice for whatever we face is this: either we don't need to worry or the situation is so serious that worry is pointless.


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