This series features an American Mink -- Neovison vison, foraging along the Chicago River with "Poet's Epitaph" by William Wordsworth:
'Art thou a Statist in the van
Of public conflicts trained and bred?
--First learn to love one living man;
‘Then’ may’st thou think upon the dead.
A Lawyer art thou? –draw not nigh!
Go, carry to some fitter place
The keenness of that practiced eye,
The hardness of that sallow face.
Art thou a Man of purple cheer?
A rosy Man, right plump to see?
Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near,
This grave no cushion is for thee.
Or art thou one of gallant pride,
A soldier and no man of chaff?
Welcome!—but lay thy sword aside,
And lean upon a peasant’s staff.
Physician art thou? one, all eyes,
Philosopher! a fingering slave,
One that would peep and botanise
Upon his mother’s grave?
Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
O turn aside,--and take, I pray,
That he below may rest in peace,
They ever-dwindling soul, away!
A Moralist perchance appears;
Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:
And he has neither eyes nor ears;
Himself his world, and his own God.
One to whose smooth-rubbed soul may cling
Nor form, nor feeling, great or small;
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,
An intellectual All-in-all!
Shut close the door; press down the latch;
Sleep in they intellectual crust;
Nor lose ten ticking of thy watch
Near this unprofitable dust.
But who is He, with modest looks,
And clad in homely russet brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.
He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noon-day grovel;
And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.
The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.
In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart,--
The harvest of a quiet eye
That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
But he is weak; both Man and Boy,
Hath been an idler in the land;
Contented if he might enjoy
The things which others understand.
--Come hither in thy hour of strength;
Come, weak as is a breaking wave!
Here stretch thy body full at length;
Or build thy house upon this grave.' ~ "A Poet's Epitaph" by William Wordsworth
cue "El Futuro Es Espacio" by Pablo Neruda:
'The future is space,
color of water, air,
black space with room for many dreams,
white space with room for all snow,
for all music.
Behind lies despairing love
with no room for a kiss.
There’s a place for everyone in forests,
in streets, in houses;
there’s an underground space, a submarine space,
but what joy to find in the end, rising,
an empty planet,
great stars clear as vodka,
so uninhabited and so transparent,
and arrive there with the first telephone
so that so many men can later discuss
all their infirmities.
The important thing is to be scarcely aware of oneself,