De Engelse priester en dichter George Herbert werd op 3 april 1593 geboren, waarschijnlijk te Black Hall (Wales). Zie ook mijn blog van 3 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 3 april 2008 en ook mijn blog van 3 april 2009.
Whitsunday
Listen sweet Dove unto my song,
And spread thy golden wings in me;
Hatching my tender heart so long,
Till it get wing, and fly away with thee.
Where is that fire which once descended
On thy Apostles? thou didst then
Keep open house, richly attended,
Feasting all comers by twelve chosen men.
Such glorious gifts thou didst bestow,
That th’earth did like a heav’n appear;
The stars were coming down to know
If they might mend their wages, and serve here.
The sun which once did shine alone,
Hung down his head, and wisht for night,
When he beheld twelve suns for one
Going about the world, and giving light.
But since those pipes of gold, which brought
That cordial water to our ground,
Were cut and martyr’d by the fault
Of those, who did themselves through their side wound,
Thou shutt’st the door, and keep’st within;
Scarce a good joy creeps through the chink:
And if the braves of conqu’ring sin
Did not excite thee, we should wholly sink.
Lord, though we change, thou art the same;
The same sweet God of love and light:
Restore this day, for thy great name,
Unto his ancient and miraculous right.
George Herbert (3 april 1593 – 1 maart 1633)
Links Herberts kleine kerkje in Bemerton, rechts de pastorie
De Amerikaanse schrijver Washington Irving werd geboren op 3 april 1783 in Manhattan, New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 3 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 3 april 2009.
Uit: Rip Van Winkle
„Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky, but, sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by
some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace!) and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather-cocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple good-natured fellow of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors.“
Washington Irving (3 april 1783 – 28 november 1859)
De Duitse schrijver Josef Mühlberger werd geboren op 3 april 1903 in Trautenau in Böhmen. Zie ook mijn blog van 3 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 3 april 2009.
Uit: Leben an Grenzen
„”Meine Jugend verlief nicht nur äußerlich an der Grenze zweier Völker, was mein Herz nicht in Haß verengte, sondern durch Vielfalt bereicherte, … den Blick weitete und mich das Gemeinsame hinter dem Trennenden suchen ließ … Ich habe manche Länder gesehen, ich kann die Dichter verschiedener Zunge lesen. Aber alles das nahm mich nicht fort, sondern sammelte mich und trug mich der Mitte zu; geographisch, und nicht nur so, liegt hier mein Vaterland.”
(,…)
„“Als ich meine Heimat verließ, kamen in der Truhe, die noch die Spuren der Erde des väterlichen Gartens an sich trug, die Arbeiten meiner letzten zehn verschwiegenen und schweigsamen Jahre mit in die neue Heimat, die mir aber längst alte Heimat war, in das Land zu den Füßen des Hohenstaufen, in die Landschaft Schillers, Hölderlins, Mörikes, Hesses. Das war schließlich wie die Vertreibung in ein Paradies.”
Josef Mühlberger (3 april 1903 – 2 juli 1985)
De Duitse koopman en schrijver Friedrich Emil Rittershaus werd geboren op 3 april 1834 in Barmen. Zie ook mijn blog van 3 april 2007.
Zur Verlobung
Hochsommer ist’s. Die Abendluft
regt die Kastanienfächer
und hauchet des Jasminen Duft
hinein in die Gemächer.
Was ich so lang verborgen trug,
nicht länger kann ich’s tragen!
Wie dir mein Herz entgegenschlug,
nun muss ich’s sagen, sagen!
Wo ist mein Stolz, so hochgesinnt?
Kein Wort will heute taugen!
Es steht vor dir ein stammelnd Kind
mit Tränen in den Augen.
Du schaust mich an – ein Nicken nur!
Ans Herz darf ich dir fallen! –
O Gott, in Rosen steht die Flur,
durchjauchzt von Nachtigallen!
Es wird das Mondlicht silberbleich
zum Maiensonnenscheine;
ich hab das ganze Himmelreich
in dir, du Einzig-Eine!
Friedrich Emil Rittershaus (3 april 1834 – 8 maart 1897)
Standbeeld in Barmen