Søndagsandagten

Jeg er jo ikke kristen, men derfor kan man da godt holde sin kultur hellig om søndagen. Her en dejlig Nocturne af Chopin, suppleret med et af William Blakes bedste digte, "The night".

NIGHT

by: William Blake (1757-1827)

HE sun descending in the west,

The evening star does shine;

The birds are silent in their nest.

And I must seek for mine.

The moon, like a flower

In heaven's high bower,

With silent delight

Sits and smiles on the night.




Farewell, green fields and happy grove,

Where flocks have took delight:

Where lambs have nibbled, silent move

The feet of angels bright;

Unseen they pour blessing

And joy without ceasing

On each bud and blossom,

On each sleeping bosom.




They look in every thoughtless nest

Where birds are cover'd warm;

They visit caves of every beast,

to keep them all from harm:

If they see any weeping

That should have been sleeping,

They pour sleep on their head,

And sit down by their bed.




When wolves and tigers howl for prey,

They pitying stand and weep,

Seeking to drive their thirst away

And keep them from the sheep.

But, if they rush dreadful,

The angels, most heedful,

Receive each mild spirit,

New worlds to inherit.




And there the lion's ruddy eyes

Shall flow with tears of gold:

And pitying the tender cries,

And walking round the fold:

Saying, 'Wrath by His meekness,

And, by His health, sickness,

Are driven away

From our immortal day.




'And now beside thee, bleating lamb,

I can lie down and sleep,

Or think on Him who bore thy name,

Graze after thee, and weep.

For, wash'd in life's river,

My bright mane for ever

Shall shine like the gold

As I guard o'er the fold.'