Watercolor painting by Winslow Homer.
I shared this painting by Winslow Homer on Facebook the other day with the word Romantic ….. tagged on and was then a bit taken aback when a friend commented: From a Romantic.
All sorts of things came shooting into my mind, including sociological readings where the point is made that in some societies romantic love is perceived as a form of insanity. And what about match-making in the Ireland of not too long ago and even of today in the likes of Lisdoonvarna, Co. Clare.
Is romance all about heart ruling head, I ask. But there again, we talk of ‘heady’ days of falling in love.
I have to bear in mind, too, that I’m the person who identified the greatest love poem of them all, here on this blog, as being this one from W.B. Yeats:
When You Are Old
WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars
Insane or otherwise, I think it will matter hugely to me when I am old and grey to know that at least one man loved the pilgrim soul in me.
Will it matter to you, dear friends, or where do you stand, sit, lie on the question of romance and insanity?
SOCIAL BRIDGE ~ Jean Tubridy connecting with you from Ireland 
Love that line about the pilgrm soul Jean – still waiting for that one man!
CF, thanks for writing. Yes, that line is the ultimate for me!
Are the parameters of sanity isolated in an arbitrary constant, or is it better defined as a special kind of variable? Either way, the newspapers suggest a shortage of it. Did romanticism begin in the late 18th century and end by the middle of the 19th? Perhaps the progress of W. B. Yeats’ pilgrim differed slightly from John Bunyan’s. The shortage of romance of lasting quality noticed by some in either journey is a shortage of sincerity in the sojourners’ hearts as they temporarily reside without permanence. But how we position ourselves on the question varies. While some do stand or sit, observation of the mess most people make of it, suggest it not uncommon that they lie. Some lie to others, and some with others. Some of us make adventurous pilgrimages, and some just wander. While wandering, I found myself wondering about a cactus adorned with select swimwear with no shortage whatsoever of imagination.
Van, you make me think of yet another W.B. Yeats poem ~ The Song of Wandering Aengus ~ which is a work of brilliance. It’s interesting that Yeatsm who was such a romantic in some ways, wrote in his poem September 1913, ‘Romantic Irleland’s dead and gone…’
I think there is probably romantic with a capital ‘R’ and a small ‘r,’ with touches of insanity thrown into each. How that ‘insanity’ is defined is quite another matter and maybe the changes in the 19th century were about changes in that definition or perhaps the move towards more subjective definitions.
One way or the other, you still continue to make me smile and that has a romanticism all of its own too!
Ah, the one who knows the ‘Pilgrim Soul,’ in me. Reminds me of these words that came upon my heart……I wait for him and all he holds within.
Wait for me by the garden path
My walk is slower than thine
My eyes are not as clear
My mind is wakening to the sound
The silence once so frightening
Is now my dearest friend
I hear the whisper of the wind in the willows
The sound of the gull high in the gray silent air
The rhythm of the earth beneath my barren feet
Time is marking moments upon my soul
I am yet growing younger as the numbers march on
My heart is opening as a flower under greatness’ touch
The colors are vivid……the smells are strong
I taste the mist yet upon my tongue….
My mind is cleared……..
My heart renewed……..
My soul revealed…….
Now ready am I to meet thee by the garden path
My step dancing like silken fairies
My eyes laughing like mischievous elves
My mind expands to reach the soaring eagles
And I envelop all of nature’s call within
my once…….timid hidden soul
Judith A. Stevens
Judith, thanks so much for sharing this most romantic poem. I particularly like the last stanza and especially the idea of ‘eyes laughing like mischievous elves.’