Before proceeding further, I should make clear that I am not using the term "soul" in any religious or sectarian sense. Heaven, Hell, Paradise, Nirvana, et cetera, et cetera are of no moment to me.
But I do believe that we each have a soul. Call it, say, an animating spirit -- indefinable, ineffable, untouchable . . . flitting and transient. "Animula vagula blandula." What trace will this fluttering, fleeting thing leave behind?
Mary Coleridge considers this subject in the following untitled poem.
Some in a child would live, some in a book;
When I am dead let there remain of me
Less than a word -- a little passing look,
Some sign the soul had once, ere she forsook
The form of life to live eternally.
Theresa Whistler (editor), The Collected Poems of Mary Coleridge (1954).
Coleridge's poem brings to mind the following untitled poem by William Allingham. The poem is not necessarily about souls, but I think that it nicely complements Coleridge's "less than a word -- a little passing look" and "some sign the soul had once."
Everything passes and vanishes;
Everything leaves its trace;
And often you see in a footstep
What you could not see in a face.
William Allingham, Evil May-Day (1883).
3 comments:
Now there's a thought. Some of the essential me would live on in my garden here as long as my plantings survive. Some in my name on the flyleaf of one of my many books. A big chunk of me in my children. One of my rare drawings would perhaps provoke a response. But perhaps a little bit of the real me would come across in my hastily-jotted down descriptive notes on scraps of paper which once in a while, get copied into my commonplace book . . .
Very nice, Bovey Belle -- those are lovely things to leave behind. As always, I appreciate hearing your thoughts.
Thank you Stephen (takes a bow!)
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