I sat in total darkness thinking of what had happened that day: I, Sarah White, was traveling to America, on a ship the Currier is its name. Yes, I have left my beloved Sweden, something I never dreamed in my life I would do. But it is said there is much gold in America. Perhaps Papa will become rich, perhaps... I should go no further. I believe I should keep heart, but when does heart turn over to greed? I must watch myself.
The Potter slowly watches morning break;
He sits before his wheel, before the day.
He ponders what it is He's going to make;
And slowly He begins to turn the clay.
The clay is damp, and stiff, and spiritless;
A little lump of cold and gritty earth.
The wheel is whirling swiftly, errorless;
The Potter’s hands are slowly forming birth.
SILENCE—but a silence fuller and more fulfilling than any on earth—fell between us as I considered what my Teacher had said. The stillness itself breathed of joy and reverberated with glory and anticipation. I knew now what people on earth refer to vaguely as the “presence of God.” But here, without the fen-clouds of sin and mortality, the Presence shot through the bright air with transparent fullness. Suddenly my reverie was interrupted by another ghost who walked toward us, out from silvery shadows under a grove of trees.
King Henry V appears to wage a righteous war motivated by a pious claim to the throne of France, but in Act I scenes one through two, evidence suggests manipulation by others and selfish motives have forced the invasion. In the first place, the bishops who support the righteousness of the war secretly seek to use it as a means to distract the King from a unplayable debt the church owes. Through a convincing argument , the Bishop of Canterbury, in a sense , manipulates history to illustrate Henry’s lineage to the throne of France.
Light from an open window dimmed as a reddened sun sank below the horizon. Yet, my eyes did not waver from the bed I crouched over. Silently, a tear ran down my cheek as I stroked the ashen face of my ill brother, Lazarus. Water from a twisted rag dripped aimlessly down his face. My brother’s copper hair lay in tangles, and his closed eyes showed no signs of life.
“Mary,” a voice said, interrupting my thoughts.
Azure sky arches overhead, reaching forever into the glories of the heavens. Assorted puffed clouds dot the wide sky, like enormous cotton balls floating on a billowing sea. Let your eyes fall to weary, naked tree trunks, which stand gnarled and indigent without leaves. They rise above an endless sea of waving reeds, dancing softly in a warm breeze.
(Formerly "When?" But I wrote it with Gollum in mind, and thus thought "Gollum's Poem" better described it's intentions.)
Ludwig van Beethoven was born on December 17th, 1700, in the German town of Bonn. His father and grandfather were both employed as court musicians. His grandfather, who was also named Ludwig van Beethoven, had become an accomplished bass singer, and was the well-respected Kapellmeister (conductor of the orchestra and choir) in the Electoral Court of Bonn.
It is ever so much harder to appreciate beauty, truth, wisdom, simplicity, etc., when you are surrounded by new cars, huge houses, the latest styles, a million things of convenience, violent and literally disgusting movies, obnoxious and wretched music, and all manner of offensive advertisement.
I’m thankful for things. I am thankful for the fencing foil with the French grip that I use in fencing class, the antique red and gold velvet and the trace of rust running along the blade. For the sound it makes when it whistles through the air or strikes another blade. I’m thankful for the green and gold picture frame on my wall, with the postcard of the medieval painting of Dante held within. For the tweed jacket I wear when I go out to smoke a pipe, and the pipe with its dark bowl and cherry glow of fire. For the smoke that dances out and spreads into the air like a spiritual thing.