As in the midst of battle there is room For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth; As gossips whisper of a trinket's worth Spied by the death-bed's flickering candle-gloom;…
Born in 1863 and largely raised in the United States, George Santayana was a philosopher, poet and writer of Spanish descent, a philosopher at heart who found great meaning in the literary world around him. Born in Madrid, Santayana spent his early days in the city before relocating to Boston to stay with his mother when he was nearly ten years old. Initially the young Santayana was educated at Boston Latin School where he proved to be an able scholar and managed to find a place at Harvard University. It was a pivotal time for the young man as he came under the wing of noted philosophers such as Josiah Royce and William James who formed the Golden Age of Harvard Philosophy. Not given to athletic pursuits like many of his contemporaries, Santayana took part in a philosophical society and contributed to magazines such as The Harvard Lampoon. Once he had graduated, Santayana continued his studies in Berlin, before returning again to Harvard where he took up a post teaching philosophy. Towards the end of the century he took a sabbatical and moved to London studying at Cambridge for a couple of years. His first poetry collection Sonnets and Other Verses was published in 1894 and his first major philosophical work The Sense of Beauty appeared a couple of years later. At the age of 49, Santayana gave up his job at Harvard University and decided to move back to Europe where he would stay for the remainder of his life. For a while he traveled to Paris, Oxford, and spent several years in Avila, Spain, concentrating on his writing rather than pursuing any academic career. He wrote 19 books during this time including Poems in 1922 and The Last Puritan in 1935. Santayana was a great believer in the old ways of philosophical exploration and is generally thought to be a Platonist at heart, pushing aside the modern obsession with restrictive methodology. He combined both philosophy and prose poetry in perhaps one of his most important works The Life of Reason which was published in 1905. In this Santayana explores the evolution of reason in man, a work that reveals his roots in natural science, and is thought to be one of the more important philosophical works of the time. His other great contribution was written between 1927 and 1940 when he finally completed Realms of Being which explores the essence of human existence. This tradition of humanist philosophy came across in Santayana’s poetry in works such as The Poet’s Testament and his novel come memoir The Last Puritan. Santayana began to spend the winters in Rome and eventually settled there for the remainder of his life. He was known for viewing American society from a foreigner’s point of view and writing about philosophy in a more literary manner than many of his contemporaries. A champion of the critical realist movement and one of the major thinkers of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Santayana died in Rome at the age of 88 in 1952. He was buried in Lazio, Rome.
George Santayana şiirleri
See this bowl of purple wine, Life-blood of the lusty vine! All the warmth of summer suns In the vintage liquid runs,…
I Behoild Pelides with his yellow hair, Proud child of Thetis, hero loved of Jove;…
The low sandy beach and the thin scrub pine, The wide reach of bay and the long sky line,— O, I am sick for home!…
Silent daisies out of reach, Maidens of the starry grass, Gazing on me as I pass With a look too wise for speech,…
O WORLD, thou choosest not the better part! It is not wisdom to be only wise, And on the inward vision close the eyes, But it is wisdom to believe the heart.…
I would I might forget that I am I, And break the heavy chain that binds me fast, Whose links about myself my deeds have cast. What in the body's tomb doth buried lie…
O dweller in the valley, lift thine eyes To where, above the drift of cloud, the stone Endures in silence, and to God alone Upturns its furrowed visage, and is wise.…
My heart rebels against my generation, That talks of freedom and is slave to riches, And, toiling 'neath each day's ignoble burden, Boasts of the morrow.…
Hold high the woof, dear friends, that we may see The cunning mixture of its colours rare. Nothing in nature purposely is fair,— Her beauties in their freedom disagree;…
O world, thou choosest not the better part! It is not wisdom to be only wise, And on the inward vision close the eyes, But it is wisdom to believe the heart.…
The muffled syllables that Nature speaks Fill us with deeper longing for her word; She hides a meaning that the spirit seeks, She makes a sweeter music than is heard.…
Slow and reluctant was the long descent, With many farewell pious looks behind, And dumb misgivings where the path might wind, And questionings of nature, as I went.…
Slowly the black earth gains upon the yellow, And the caked hill-side is ribbed soft with furrows. Turn now again, with voice and staff, my ploughman, Guiding thy oxen.…
O world, thou choosest not the better part! It is not wisdom to be only wise, And on the inward vision close the eyes, But it is wisdom to believe the heart.…
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