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THULE


ARTUR KRUTSCH


THULE


The farthest of all, which are known and spoke of, is Thule; in which there be no nights at all, as we have declared, about mid-summer, namely when the Sunne passeth through the signe Cancer; and contrariwise no daies in midwinter: and each of these times they suppose, doe last sixe moneths, all day, or all night. Timaeus the Historiographer saith, That farther within-forth, and six dayes sailing from Britaine, there lyeth the Iland Mictis, in which white lead groweth: and, that the Britaines doe sail thither in winter vessels covered with leather round about and well sowed. There be that make mention of others beside, to wit, Scandia, Dumna, and Bergos, and the biggest of all the rest Nerigos, from which men saile to Thule. Within one daies sailing from Thule, is the frozen sea, named of some Cronium.


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow TO G.W.G.

With favoring winds, o’er sunlit seas, We sailed for the Hesperides, The land where golden apples grow; But that, ah! that was long ago. How far, since then, the ocean streams Have swept us from that land of dreams, That land of fiction and of truth, The lost Atlantis of our youth! Whither, oh, whither? Are not these The tempest-haunted Hebrides, Where sea gulls scream, and breakers roar, And wreck and sea-weed line the shore? Ultima Thule! Utmost Isle! Here in thy harbors for a while We lower our sails; a while we rest From the unending, endless quest.


Johann Wolfgang von Goethe THE KING OF THULE

There was a king in Thule, Was faithful to the grave, Whom she that loved him truly In dying a goblet gave. He found no prize more appealing, Each feast he drained the cup; To his eyes the tears came stealing Whenever he held it up. And when he came to dying, The towns in his realm he enrolled, His heir no prize denying, Except that cup of gold. And at a royal wassail With all his knights sat he In the hall of his father’s castle That faces toward the sea. The old carouser slowly Stood up, drank life’s last glow, And flung the cup so holy Into the flood below. He saw it plunging, drinking As deep in the sea it sank. His eyes the while were sinking, Not a drop again he drank.


Edgar Allan Poe DREAM-LAND By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule– From a wild clime that lieth, sublime, Out of SPACE– out of TIME. Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover For the tears that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters– lone and dead,– Their still waters– still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily. By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead,– Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily,– By the mountains– near the river Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,– By the grey woods,– by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encamp– By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls,– By each spot the most unholy– In each nook most melancholy– There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past– Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by– White-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth– and Heaven. For the heart whose woes are legion ’Tis a peaceful, soothing region– For the spirit that walks in shadow ’Tis– oh, ’tis an Eldorado! But the traveller, travelling through it, May not– dare not openly view it! Never its mysteries are exposed To the weak human eye unclosed; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses. By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim Thule.


ARTUR KRUTSCH THULE SUPPORT: PROF. CINDY GATES

© 2012, ARTURKRUTSCH.DE



THULE