Saturday, January 26, 2008

Poetry In Motion




One of the loveliest poem I've ever read and known by heart is ...
..

Daffodils
By William Wordsworth


I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee :
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company !
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.


For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude ;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.



Daffodil is a bulbous plant of the lily family bearing a yellow trumpet-shaped flower that grows wild in English woods and flowers in Spring.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Love, the Great Equalizer


"All is fair in Love and War, " so we often quote. War is a terrible equalizer that brings fear, sufferings and bereavements but love....Love is the great equalizer, that brings joy to the heart, mind and soul. Love encompasses everything that is sweet, patient and kind and never indulges in the faults of the loved one but embraces everything with tolerance, kindness and patience always believing in the uplifting of the spirits and hearts that are broken...love stands when all else has fallen....love remains when all else has gone.


somewhere i have never traveled,
gladly beyond
any experience,
your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture
are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch
because they are too near

your slightest look
easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself
as fingers
you open always
petal by petal
myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)
her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,
i and
my life will
shut very beautifully,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower
imagines
the snow carefully
everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive
in this world
equals
the power
of your intense fragility:
whose texture
compels me
with the colour of its countries,

rendering death
and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you
that closes
and opens;
only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes
is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,
has such small hands.


e.e.cummings

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Dreams



I've dreamed many dreams that never came true,
I've seen them vanish at dawn,
But I've realized enough of my dreams thank the Lord
To make me want to dream on.

I've prayed many prayers when no answer came,
Though I've waited patient and long,
But answers have come to enough of my prayers,
To make me keep praying on.

I've trusted many a friend that failed,
And left me to weep alone,
But I've found enough of my friends that are really true,
That will make me keep trusting on.

I've sown many seeds that have fallen by the way,
For the birds to feed upon,
But I've held enough golden sheaves in my hand,
To make me keep sowing on.

I've drunk from the cup of disappointment and pain,
I've gone many days without song,
But I've sipped enough nectar from the Rose of Life,
To make me keep living on!

Author: Ron De Marco and friend

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Jane Austen

Jane Austen

Jane AustenBorn: 16-Dec-1775
Birthplace: Steventon, Hampshire, England
Died: 18-Jul-1817
Location of death: Winchester, England
Cause of death: unspecified
Remains: Buried, Winchester Cathedral

Gender: Female
Race or Ethnicity: White
Occupation: Author

Nationality: England
Executive summary: Pride and Prejudice

English novelist, born on the 16th of December 1775 at the parsonage of Steventon, in Hampshire, a village of which her father, the Rev. George Austen, was rector. She was the youngest of seven children. Her mother was Cassandra Leigh, niece of Theophilus Leigh, a dry humorist, and for fifty years master of Balliol, Oxford. The life of no woman of genius could have been more uneventful than Miss Austen's. She did not marry, and she never left home except on short visits, chiefly to Bath. Her first sixteen years were spent in the rectory at Steventon, where she began early to trifle with her pen, always jestingly, for family entertainment. In 1801 the Austens moved to Bath, where Mr. Austen died in 1805, leaving only Mrs. Austen, Jane and her sister Cassandra, to whom she was always deeply attached, to keep up the home; his sons were out in the world, the two in the navy, Francis William and Charles, subsequently rising to admiral's rank. In 1805 the Austen ladies moved to Southampton, and in 1809 to Chawton, near Alton, in Hampshire, and there Jane Austen remained until 1817, the year of her death, which occurred at Winchester, on July 18th, as a memorial window in the cathedral testifies.

During her placid life Miss Austen never allowed her literary work to interfere with her domestic duties: sewing much and admirably, keeping house, writing many letters and reading aloud. Though, however, her days were quiet and her area circumscribed, she saw enough of middle-class provincial society to find a basis on which her dramatic and humorous faculties might build, and such was her power of searching observation and her sympathetic imagination that there are not in English fiction more faithful representations of the life she knew than we possess in her novels. She had no predecessors in this genre. Miss Austen's "little bit (two inches wide) of ivory" on which she worked "with so fine a brush" -- her own phrases -- was her own invention.

Her best known, if not her best work, Pride and Prejudice, was also her first. It was written between October 1796 and August 1797, although, such was the blindness of publishers, not issued until 1813, two years after Sense and Sensibility, which was written, on an old scenario called "Eleanor and Marianne", in 1797 and 1798. Miss Austen's inability to find a publisher for these stories, and for Northanger Abbey, written in 1798 (although it is true that she sold that manuscript in 1803 for £10 to a Bath bookseller, only, however, to see it locked away in a safe for some years, to be gladly resold to her later), seems to have damped her ardor; for there is no evidence that between 1798 and 1809 she wrote anything but the fragment called "The Watsons", after which year she began to revise her early work for the press. Her other three books belong to a later date -- Mansfield Park, Emma and Persuasion being written between 1811 and 1816. All her works were initially anonymous, agreeably to their author's retiring disposition.

Although Pride and Prejudice is the novel which in the mind of the public is most intimately associated with Miss Austen's name, both Mansfield Park and Emma are finer achievements -- at once riper and richer and more elaborate. But the fact that Pride and Prejudice is more single-minded, that the love story of Elizabeth Bennet and D'Arcy is not only of the book but is the book (whereas the love story of Emma and Mr. Knightley and Fanny Price and Edmund Bertram have parallel streams), has given Pride and Prejudice its popularity above the others among readers who are more interested by the course of romance than by the exposition of character. Entirely satisfactory as is Pride and Prejudice so far as it goes, it is, however, thin beside the niceness of analysis of motives in Emma and the wonderful management of two housefuls of young lovers that is exhibited in Mansfield Park.

It has been generally agreed by the best critics that Miss Austen has never been approached in her own domain. No one indeed has attempted any close rivalry. No other novelist has so concerned herself or himself with the trivial daily comedy of small provincial family life, disdaining equally the assistance offered by passion, crime and religion. Whatever Miss Austen may have thought privately of these favorite ingredients of fiction, she disregarded all alike when she took her pen in hand. Her interest was in life's little perplexities of emotion and conduct; her gaze was steadily ironical. The most untoward event in any of her books is Louisa's fall from the Cobb at Lyme Regis, in Persuasion; the most abandoned, Maria's elopement with Crawford, in Mansfield Park. In pure ironical humour Miss Austen's only peer among novelists is George Meredith, and indeed Emma may be said to be her Egoist, or the Egoist his Emma. But irony and fidelity to the fact alone would not have carried her down the ages. To these gifts she allied a perfect sense of dramatic progression and an admirably lucid and flowing prose style which makes her stories the easiest reading.

Recognition came to Miss Austen slowly. It was not until many decades later that to read her became a necessity of culture. But she is now firmly established as an English classic, standing far above Miss Burney (Madame d'Arblay) and Maria Edgeworth, who in her day were the popular women novelists of real life, while Mrs. Radcliffe and "Monk" Lewis, whose supernatural fancies Northanger Abbey was written in part to ridicule, are no longer anything but names. Although much delayed in her fame, Miss Austen had always her panegyrists among the best intellects -- such as Coleridge, Tennyson, Macaulay, Scott, Sydney Smith, Disraeli and Archbishop Whately, the last of whom may be said to have been her discoverer. Macaulay, whose adoration of Miss Austen's genius was almost idolatrous, considered Mansfield Park her greatest feat; but many critics give the palm to Emma. Disraeli read Pride and Prejudice seventeen times. Scott's testimony is often quoted: "That young lady had a talent for describing the involvements, feelings and characters of ordinary life which is to me the most wonderful I have ever met with. The big bow-wow I can do myself like any one going; but the exquisite touch which renders commonplace things and characters interesting from the truth of the description and the sentiment is denied to me."

Father: Rev. George Austen (clergyman, b. 1731, d. Jan-1805)
Mother: Cassandra Leigh (b. 1739, d. 1827)
Brother: Frank
Brother: Charles
Sister: Cassandra
Brother: Edward
Brother: Henry
Boyfriend: Harris Bigg-Wither (broken engagement)

Is the subject of books:
A Portrait of Jane Austen, 1978, BY: David Cecil

Author of books:
Sense and Sensibility (1811, novel)
Pride and Prejudice (1813, novel)
Mansfield Park (1814, novel)
Emma (1816, novel)
Northanger Abbey (1818, novel, posthumous)
Persuasion (1818, novel, posthumous)

You Never Can Tell


You never can tell when you send a word
Like an arrow shot from a bow
By an archer blind, be it cruel or kind,
Just where it may chance to go.
It may pierce the breast of your dearest friend,
Tipped with its poison or balm,
To a stranger's heart in life's great mart
It may carry its pain or its calm.


You never can tell when you do an act
Just what the result will be,
But with every deed, you are showing a seed,
Though the harvest you may not see.
Each kindly act is an acorn dropped
In God's productive soil;
You may not know, but the tree shall grow
With shelter for those who toil.


You can never tell what your thoughts will do

In bringing you hate or love, For thoughts are things, and their airy wings
Are swifter than carrier doves.
They follow the law of the universe,
Each thing must create its kind,
And they speed o'er the track to bring you back
Whatever went out from your mind.


Author Unknown



Tuesday, January 15, 2008

God slides into our hearts......


"The Holy Spirit comes down into our hearts sometimes in prayer with a beam from heaven, whereby we see more at once of God and His glory, more astounding thoughts and enlarged apprehensions of God, many beams meeting in one and falling to the center of our hearts. By these coming down or divine influxes, God slides into our hearts by beams of HImself; we come not to have communion with God by way of many broken thoughts put together, but there is a contraction of many beams from heaven, which is shed into our hearts and souls, so that we know more of God and have more communion with Him in a quarter-hour than we could know in a year by the way of wisdom only."~~~~T. Goodwin

Friday, January 4, 2008

My Favorite Things


MY FAVORITE THINGS....

Green leaves of summer...Ribbons of blue...ripe green bananas...snow-capped mountains...star-filled night sky...sheep grazing on the greenfields...raindrops on my window panes...the moors of North Yorkshire...village on the lake...cotton fields...sunrise, sunset...water lilies...the smile on a little child's face...

A little child with a tale of woe on his heart flies to his mother's arms for comfort - intending to tell her the whole story of his trouble. But as soon as that mother takes the child in her arms and expresses her love, the child becomes so occupied with her and the sweetness of her affection that he forgets to tell his story, and in a little while even the memory of the trouble is forgotten. It has just been loved away and the mother has taken its place in the heart of her child.

In this same manner, God comforts us. It is I; be not afraid is His reassuring word.

I am breathing out my sorrow

On Thy kind and loving breast;

Breathing in Thy joy and comfort,

Breathing in Thy peace and rest.

I am breathing out my longings

In Thy listening loving ear;

I am breathing in Thy answer,

Stilling every doubt and fear.