Our definitions of quiet despair and compassion differ somewhat, I expect, and I'm glad for a chance to have others broaden my view. I was intending to post "To My Wife" by J.V. Cunningham, but thought of this one by John Heath-Stubbs:
A Butterfly in October
In this college room where I teach, the servant,
This cool morning in late October,
Has kindly lit the electric fire for me.
As I sit and wait for my pupils, I am aware
Of a soft, dry rattling at the window-pane.
I think at first it is rain, or else
Twigs and leaves that are blown against the glass.
But now I perceive it as a butterfly
Desperately beating its fragile, marbled wings
Against an invisible, illogical barrier,
Trying to get out. Poor fool, you must have come indoors
Intending to hibernate in a fold of the curtains,
But now the warmth has restored you. There’s nothing for you out there,
No late chrysanthemums or autumn crocus
To yield you nectar, and the sun’s beams are pale.
You’d die -- perhaps tonight -- numbed and stiffened
By thirst and cold, or else a bird would grab you.
And yet you go on straining towards the light.
I catch you in my cupped palm (you do not struggle).
The sash lifted, I launch you to the air --
Since that’s what you so desperately seem to want.
To want? Small bundle of impulses and instincts,
Can there be any central spark that reason
Here discerns, to suffer or to will?
And yet I cannot think of you as mere
Cartesian automaton, no more
Than I can think so of myself. What can I do?
What can we ever do -- the weft and warp
Of all existence being so utterly shot through
With innocent and irremediable suffering?
So I deliver you to the stark airs of death --
But you will die free. So farewell, butterfly.
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