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Thursday, August 30, 2012

"Open Unionism"......

is a British political blog dedicated to sharing perspectives on the preservation of the UK. And, just recently, I was invited to contribute to it. To be able to write alongside the Brits on this issue has been a great honor for me, and I thank them for their willingness to let me express my opinions on the union as seen from afar.

    The United Kingdom has always held a special place in my heart because of the sheer richness and complexity of her cultural heritage. I deeply admire her historical strivings towards individual liberty, the supremacy of law, political stability, and national unity. But my interaction with the British people has made the keenest impression of all on me. Caring, frank, intelligent, and hard-working, they also display a patriotism that is level-headed and sincere. Obviously, I have been blessed to befriend the cream of the Brits, those marvelous people who acknowledge what they are and make the most of it.

    However, I’m afraid the UK is currently plagued with those who would prefer to disown their heritage and go in search of a manufactured alternative. To exchange flawed wood for smooth-looking plastic seems to be their motto. It is the wail of spoiled children in search of a new toy, and the cry of adolescent rebels in search of a worthwhile cause. The sense of community and common purpose that should be the backbone of all nations seems to have been fractured in their minds, and they have instead adopted a narrow vision of “home rule” patriotism to make up for it. This, I believe, is directly connected to a profound sense of disillusionment that is becoming a national identity crisis in Britain.

    The entire platform of the Scottish Independence Referendum rests on the presumption that the British identity is either non-existent in Scotland or so trivial that it can be easily discarded. In fact, it has been a valued part of Scottish life for generations, welded by blood, sweat, and tears. It is an indisputable fact that Scotland has gained many benefits from her place in the union, including sound finances, military strength, governmental stability, travel convenience, and cultural development. Moreover, she was able to achieve all this without ever abandoning her major institutions or distinct identity. This, I believe, is something that all Scots should be rightly proud of. It is proof that compromises can be successful, and that unity in conjunction with healthy diversity is possible. For this Scotland does owe respect and loyalty to the union of her own making.

    In recent decades, it has become common practice to slander Britishness because of its inextricable association with Imperialism. It’s a modern trend that enables British people to disassociate themselves from shameful incidents in their national past. This, in great part, makes the dissolution of the UK appealing to some who see it as “the death throes” of British tyranny. This attitude purports that Scotland is, in fact, a colony from the old Empire, chafing beneath its chains and yearning for self-government, rather than a free member of a democratic, constitutionally sound union. In some circles, the United Kingdom has been made to sound like an equivalent of the Soviet Union. Of course, no union of mortal creation is without flaw, but by and large, the UK is functioning admirably well as a modern democracy to this day.

    Arguments have been put forward by the Scottish Nationalists indicating that independence will be a type of “escape” from fighting in unpopular wars, dealing with governmental cut-backs, and having nuclear waste dumped on the land; furthermore they claim that Scotland will grow more prosperous by gaining further access to oil reserves in the North Sea. In addition to these points, some overly analytical minds are taking forays into the medieval land-grabs and romantic lost causes, simplifying their complicated motives to the point of silliness, and applying them to the present political situation in order to champion a new order of would-be fragmented Republicans. The shallow glitz-and-glitter media hype by celebrities of every stripe is sickening. More often than not, the whole current of events is being painted as a David-and-Goliath-type conflict in which the underdogs are the Scottish Nationalists, “yearning to breathe free”.

    First of all, the problems of modern society involving wars, budget cuts, and nuclear waste are being dealt with UK wide, and not just in Scotland, making the Nationalists arguments take on a whiney, “poor me” dimension. All modern nations of any power on the world stage must face such things. Bailing out on the union to try to get rid of them is not only immature, but also shockingly self-interested. The claim that Scotland will have better access to North Sea oil is questionable at best, and the potential for financial collapse while embarking an independent experiment is far more probable. Secondly, the two-dimensional view of history is not only a slander to the UK but also a disservice to the world of historians. Trying to apply modern standards to past events while at the same ignoring whole chunks of meaningful history in order to forward an agenda is despicable. Also, to ignore the process of development present in all cultures is to lose track of the ebb and flow of the human story.

    In conclusion, I see no substantial reasons why Scotland should break away from the UK and no proof whatsoever that she would be better off as an independent state. In fact, what evidence there is leads me to draw the opposite conclusion. As one of my Scottish friends put it, it is a choice between being part of a country that shaped the world, or becoming a country shaped by the world. In my opinion, the Scottish Nationalists are perpetrating the worst type of betrayal. It is a betrayal against all the years they have reaped the benefits of British citizens. It is a betrayal against their ancestors who fought and died for Britain. It is a betrayal against all the pain and labor that went into making her a success. I write this as the citizen of a union that nearly split up and disintegrated several centuries ago, with the full realization of how blessed we Americans are that the USA remained united.

    To British readers, especially in Scotland: Remember, you have a priceless heirloom in your country, and I believe it would be deeply tragic to misuse it. Polish it till it shines; don’t smash it. Many thanks to Open Unionism for the invitation to write for them and their support.


(A version of this article was posted on “Open Unionism”: http://www.openunionism.com/the-union-as-seen-from-afar)

  
 
Good Advise for Any Occasion






Tuesday, August 28, 2012

The original "Pearl of Tyburn"......

was a lady of gentle exterior and tough backbone. When I first read about her, I couldn't help being impressed by the way she put her faith into action at her own risk, determined to right wrongs as she saw them and in an age of persecution. I was so impressed, in fact, that I took her name at Confirmation, and have since used her title as my online username. The person I am referring to is St. Margaret Ward, whose feast we celebrate on August 30th.
   
Margaret was born in Congleton, Cheshire, England during the 16th century. She came from a middle-to-upper-class family, and for a time she lived with a lady of distinction who resided in London. Some accounts say she served there as a governess. Tantalizingly little is known about Margaret's personal life, except that she was a devout Catholic recusant who refused to recant her faith under the pressure of the Elizabethan persecution.

    Meanwhile, Fr. William Watson, a Catholic priest who had previously conformed to the Anglican Church had a change of heart after the brutal martyrdom of St. Margaret Clitherow and reaffirmed his priestly identity. Thereupon, he was imprisoned at Bridewell Prison in London, where neither threats nor bribes could shake him from his conviction.

    It is unknown how Margaret came to know about Fr. Watson's predicament, but some believe that he had ministered to her prior to his temporary lapse of faith. Drawn by pity at the miserable conditions of the jail and knowing that he would undoubtedly be executed, she determined to help his escape his captivity. Obviously, she was no shrinking violet.

    Margaret befriended the wife of the prison warden and gradually gained the couples' confidence. She was allowed to visit Fr. Watson regularly and bring him baskets of food. After a while, the warden did not even bother to have her searched. Using this to her advantage, Margaret smuggled a rope inside a basket of food so that the priest could climb out the window, which was not well-barred because no one believed that any escapee would risk the long drop into the river below.

    But Margaret had already thought of that and arranged for a boatman to wait below the window to row the priest to safety. Unfortunately, at the last minute, the boatman pulled out on the deal, leaving her in a lurch. In desperation, she recruited John Roache, her Irish Catholic servant, to take the boatman's place and rescue the priest.

    As two o'clock in the morning, Fr. Watson climbed out of the window to meet the waiting boatman. Midway down, he made a startling discovery. Margaret had miscalculated; the rope was too short! With no other choice available to him, he let go of the rope and fell with a crash into the boat below. He broke his leg in the process, and the noise awakened the prison guards. In a rush, John Roache switched clothes with the priest so that Fr. Watson could escape.

   That night, the Queen's soldiers arrested both Roache and Margaret Ward for conspiring to assist an "enemy of the state". Both refused to reveal the priest's whereabouts. Margaret was tortured brutally, hung up by her thin wrist in irons and scourged. Still, she would not speak a word. She was offered her freedom if she would attend an Anglican service and thus recant her Catholic Faith. She bluntly refused.

   Margaret Ward was hanged at Tyburn on August 30th, 1588, and John Roache was also executed. Their examples as steadfast witnesses of Jesus Christ lead to canonization, and they will always be remembered as two outstanding Catholic martyrs of the British Isles.

Also this month, we celebrat two great Marion Feasts.....

The Assumption of Our Lady on August 15th, and the Coronation of Our Lady on August 22nd.

We also celebrate the Feast of St. Philomena, the Little Wonder-Worker, who my family has a special devotion to, on August 11th. She was a Christian Grecian Princess who refused to submit to the lustful desires of the Roman Emperor, Diocletian, and was tortured and killed. Her bones rest in Mugnano, Italy.

St. Philomena, Powerful with God, ora pro nobis!



St. Margaret Ward, "Pearl of Tyburn"

Thursday, August 23, 2012

To Answer my own questions......

I figured I'd repost them here and have a go at it for fun! You guys have inspired me with your elightening/humorous responses ;-)


1. What was your favorite childhood toy?

Well, I did have quite a few, but the top of the list definately has to be two beanie baby kittens named Scampers and Paws. Yes, I still have them, and they sit on my bed after I make it in the morning!

2. What is your favorite domesticated animal?

I have to say rabbits, since I am a proud bunny owner, but I've also always had a soft spot in my heart for kitty-cats, I and think ferrets are fascinating.

3. Who is your favorite fictional/legendary character, and why?

Without question or doubt, Robin Hood is my favorite figure from legend. His wit, warmth, and willingness to fight for justice will always make him most appealing. From fiction, I would probably vouche for the Scarlet Pimpernel. He's so dynamic and energetic, willing to play the fop to achieve his goal of rescuing innocent victums from the guillotine.

4. Who is your favorite historical character, and why?

Oh, my gosh! There are so many! Aside from saints, and off the top of my head, I'm going with Major John Pitcairn of Lexington and Concord fame. He was a Scots-born British marine officer during the American Revolution, and I admire him for his tough courage and ability to earn the respect of both sides. I also really admire Bishop Alexander McDonell, the zealous Scottish missionary turned British military chaplain who emigrated with his Catholic clan to Canada in the early 1800's.

5. Who is your favorite saint/Biblical character, and why?

My favorite selection of saints comes from the 40 Martyrs of England and Wales. I have a special devotion to St. Edmund Campion, the brilliant scholar turned Jesuit priest who returned to England disguised as a jewel merchant. I admire his charisma and zeal for the faith, as well as his willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice and die a martyr for the Church. Also, my confirmation saint, St. Margaret Ward, "Pearl of Tyburn", inspires me since she was a Catholic middle class woman who took matters into her own hands and helped a Catholic priest escape from the Bridewell Prison. She was executed for her act of daring.

6. What is your favorite type of music/musical group?

I love folk music from the British Isles, as well as Baroque music, especially the works of George Frederick Handel. One of my favorite singers is Loreena McKennitt.

7. What is your favorite quote.

"There will never want in England men that will have care of their own salvation, nor such as shall advance other men's; neither shall this Church here ever fail so long as priests and pastors shall be found for their sheep, rage man or devil never so much." St. Edmund Campion

8. What are your favorite meals (breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert)?

Breakfast: blueberry waffles with maple syrup.
Lunch: pepperoni/mushroom pizza
Dinner: fried chicken with mashed potatoes and creamed corn
Dessert: cheesecake, angel food cake, muffins, eclairs, etc.

9. What is your favorite flower/plant?

I like daisies, Black-eyed Susans, and ferns. I also like the rose, the thistle, the leek, and shamrock, since all of them appear on the British royal coat-of-arms.

10. When was a time you felt particularly inspired by something?

I felt inspired after watching the films "Damn the Defiant" and "I Confess." I also felt quite move when listening to King's Choir sing "The Shepherd's Carol." Really, most things dealing with the beauty of British culture inspire me. Last but not least, I felt inspired recently at mass while watching the parish priest laboring in the very hot church building to give out Holy Communion. He was sweating, and I got the impression of what truly makes up the the Church: regular, hard-working, faith-filled individuals, who do their daily duties consistently and carry the Cross of Christ in little ways.

11. What are some of the causes you feel are worth fighting for?

The propagation of the Catholic Faith. The end of abortion and the upholding of traditional marriage. The preservation of the United Kingdom. The preservation of traditional American society. The ending of promiscuity and the false use of sexuality.


Thank you, one and all, for participating in the Liebster Awards! Ta, ta for now!



The Questions Have Been Answered....

Saturday, August 11, 2012

The Liebster Blog Award......

seems to be a new favorite forwarded fun fad in the blogosphere. Just recently, Paula from "The Culture Enthusiast" was nominated for it, and it turn she nominated ten other bloggers - your truly included in the number! Thanks so much, Paula! I am honored. Keep up the good work on your culturally astute and classy blog! You really deserved the Award :-)

    Now, as is required to receive the award, I must answer the 11 administered questions:


1. What are your most treasured books?

The Prey of the Priest Catchers by Leo Knowles, Edmund Campion: Hero of God's Underground by Harold C. Gardiner S. J., Edmund Campion: Jesuit and Martyr by Evelyn Waugh

2. What books have you read more than once?

I honestly don't read books more then once, although I have gotten books out from the library, read half of them, and then gotten them out a second time and finished. Also, I've occasionally returned to a book to reread a certain favorite section.

3. What's your favorite bookstore?

I don't really buy books that often; I usually get them out from the library. However, I do like to go to antique shops with good book sections. I also occasionally go to bargain book stores.

4. Do you buy books online?

Yes, I have bought books online, though I don't do it often.

5. Do you stop reading books half way through?

Oh, yes! Many times I've quit in the middle, but I usually try to pick up the book again at a later date.

6.  What's the last movie you watched?

Merlin starring Sam Neill. It's a take on the Arthurian Cycle from the perspective of the wizard Merlin made in 1998.

7. What's your favorite genre?

Period dramas, usually set in Great Britain. I like films with happy and/or inspiring endings.

8. In which movie/book would you like to live in?

I don't really want to live in any of my favorite books or movie; the characters go through to many problems!

9. Which character do you think has a great style?

Sir Percy Blakeney from Baroness Orczy's The Scarlet Pimpernel.

10. Do you go to the movies by yourself?

I've never been to the movies, but I love watching TV at home, alone or with my family.

11. In the movies: popcorn or no popcorn?

POPCORN!!!


Now, it's my turn to tag a few of my favorite bloggers:


1 Effie Dean's Space

2. Linen on the Hedgerow

3. Loyal Views

4. My Turn to Talk

5. New Sherwood

6. Ricky Yates

7. Roman Light

8.  Sasch's Place

9. The Cat's Cradle

10.  The Last Churchillian

11. The Last Welsh Martyr


Here are my list of questions for the nominees to answer, either on my blog or on their blog or both (preferably both):


1. What was your favorite childhood toy?

2. What is your favorite domesticated animal?

3. Who is your favorite fictional/legendary character, and why?

4. Who is your favorite historical character, and why?

5. Who is your favorite saint/Bibilical character, and why?

6. What is your favorite type of music/musical group?

7. What is your favorite quote?

 8. What are your favorite meals (breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert)?

9. What is your favorite flower/plant?

10. When was a time you felt particularly inspired by something?

11. What are some of the causes you feel are worth fighting for?


Have fun everybody, and keep on blogging!!!



Here's the award, gang......

Friday, August 10, 2012

"Heart of Oak".....

is one of the most famous British patriotic songs dealing with the guts and glory of native fighting men. Composed during the 18th century, it grew immensely popular and became the anthem of the British Navy. The following is a reflective, contemporary take on the classic ballad, searching for lasting meaning in a society plagued by self-conscious regret.



Heart of Oak

Heart of Oak, well-seasoned wood,
I can feel your presence;
My breast has been your hiding place,
My fathers’ blood, your sustenance

You are our unity and our continuity
Though some may seek to hide,
You are our truest side,
Heart of Oak

Your ancient roots are flawed by years,
Yet they run deep in native soil;
Both good and bad we all must face
For ‘tis the harvest of our toil

It matters not from whence we came;
All your children bare your brand
To fracture now would be but waste;
Together let us always stand

When tyrants tried to pierce you through,
You drove them back with fiery pride;
Let not your fatal hour be
The consequence of suicide

Our fickle world is set for change,
To change the world for change’s sake;
We’re told to look the other way,
To bend our honour lest we break

But in the end, unthinking change
Measures out a petty price;
The greatest worth is in the heart
Of constancy and sacrifice

You are our unity and our continuity
Though some may seek to hide,
You are our truest side,
God save this nation’s pride,
Heart of Oak



Heart of Oak




Thursday, August 2, 2012

East and West meet.......

in this poetry selection dealing with unrequited love. The first piece is Alfred Lord Tennyson's famous Arthurian ballad about an enchanted lady who is cursed for her love of a gallant knight. The second is a meditative lament written by Lebonese poet, Kahlil Gibran, in the voice of a woman whose soul mate is far away. I find both of these hauntingly beautiful, and I hope you do as well.


The Lady of Shalott 

Part I

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot;             
And up and down the people go,              
Gazing where the lilies blow              
Round an island there below,              
The island of Shalott.              

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,              
Little breezes dusk and shiver              
Through the wave that runs for ever             
By the island in the river             
Flowing down to Camelot.             
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,              
Overlook a space of flowers,             
And the silent isle imbowers              
The Lady of Shalott.             

By the margin, willow-veiled,             
Slide the heavy barges trailed              
By slow horses; and unhailed             
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed              
Skimming down to Camelot:              
But who hath seen her wave her hand?            
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,              
The Lady of Shalott?              

Only reapers, reaping early             
In among the bearded barley,             
Hear a song that echoes cheerly              
From the river winding clearly,              
Down to towered Camelot:              
And by the moon the reaper weary,             
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,             
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy              
Lady of Shalott."        

Part II              

There she weaves by night and day             
A magic web with colours gay.           
She has heard a whisper say,              
A curse is on her if she stay              
To look down to Camelot.              
She knows not what the curse may be,              
And so she weaveth steadily,             
And little other care hath she,             
The Lady of Shalott.             

And moving through a mirror clear              
That hangs before her all the year,              
Shadows of the world appear.            
There she sees the highway near              
Winding down to Camelot:             
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,              
And the red cloaks of market girls,             
Pass onward from Shalott.                            

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,             
An abbot on an ambling pad,              
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,              
Or long-haired page in crimson clad,              
Goes by to towered Camelot;              
And sometimes through the mirror blue              
The knights come riding two and two:            
She hath no loyal knight and true,              
The Lady of Shalott.             

But in her web she still delights              
To weave the mirror's magic sights,             
For often through the silent nights              
A funeral, with plumes and lights            
And music, went to Camelot:             
Or when the moon was overhead,              
Came two young lovers lately wed;             
"I am half sick of shadows," said             
The Lady of Shalott.             

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,              
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,             
And flamed upon the brazen greaves              
Of bold Sir Lancelot.              
A red-cross knight for ever kneeled              
To a lady in his shield,            
That sparkled on the yellow field,             
Beside remote Shalott.             
              
The gemmy bridle glittered free,            
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.             
The bridle bells rang merrily              
As he rode down to Camelot:              
And from his blazoned baldric slung              
A mighty silver bugle hung,              
And as he rode his armour rung,              
Beside remote Shalott.             
              
All in the blue unclouded weather             
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather             
Burned like one burning flame together,              
As he rode down to Camelot.             
As often through the purple night,              
Below the starry clusters bright,              
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,              
Moves over still Shalott.              
              
His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;             
On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flowed             
His coal-black curls as on he rode,             
As he rode down to Camelot.              
From the bank and from the river              
He flashed into the crystal mirror,             
"Tirra lirra," by the river              
Sang Sir Lancelot.             
              
She left the web, she left the loom,             
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,              
She saw the helmet and the plume,              
She looked down to Camelot.              
Out flew the web and floated wide;              
The mirror cracked from side to side;              
"The curse is come upon me," cried              
The Lady of Shalott.             
              
Part IV             

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,              
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining              
Over towered Camelot;              
Down she came and found a boat              
Beneath a willow left afloat,              
And round about the prow she wrote              
The Lady of Shalott.             
              
And down the river's dim expanse,             
Like some bold seër in a trance              
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance             
Did she look to Camelot.             
And at the closing of the day              
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;              
The broad stream bore her far away,              
The Lady of Shalott.              
              
Lying, robed in snowy white              
That loosely flew to left and right--              
The leaves upon her falling light--
Through the noises of the night              
She floated down to Camelot:               
And as the boat-head wound along               
The willowy hills and fields among,              
They heard her singing her last song,              
The Lady of Shalott.              
              
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,             
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,              
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,              
Turned to towered Camelot.              
For ere she reached upon the tide              
The first house by the water-side,              
Singing in her song she died,              
The Lady of Shalott.             
              
Under tower and balcony,             
By garden-wall and gallery,             
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,              
Silent into Camelot.              
Out upon the wharfs they came,             
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,              
And round the prow they read her name,              
The Lady of Shalott.              

Who is this? and what is here?              
And in the lighted palace near              
Died the sound of royal cheer;              
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:              
But Lancelot mused a little space;              
He said, "She has a lovely face;              
God in his mercy lend her grace,              
The Lady of Shalott."         



A Lover's Call

Where are you, my beloved? Are you in that little
Paradise, watering the flowers who look upon you
As infants look upon the breast of their mothers?

Or are you in your chamber where the shrine of
Virtue has been placed in your honor, and upon
Which you offer my heart and soul as sacrifice?

Or amongst the books, seeking human knowledge,
While you are replete with heavenly wisdom?

Oh companion of my soul, where are you? Are you
Praying in the temple? Or calling Nature in the
Field, haven of your dreams?

Are you in the huts of the poor, consoling the
Broken-hearted with the sweetness of your soul, and
Filling their hands with your bounty?

You are God's spirit everywhere;
You are stronger than the ages.
Do you have memory of the day we met, when the halo of
You spirit surrounded us, and the Angels of Love
Floated about, singing the praise of the soul's deed?

Do you recollect our sitting in the shade of the
Branches, sheltering ourselves from Humanity, as the ribs
Protect the divine secret of the heart from injury?

Remember you the trails and forest we walked, with hands
Joined, and our heads leaning against each other, as if
We were hiding ourselves within ourselves?

Recall you the hour I bade you farewell,
And the Maritime kiss you placed on my lips?
That kiss taught me that joining of lips in Love
Reveals heavenly secrets which the tongue cannot utter!

That kiss was introduction to a great sigh,
Like the Almighty's breath that turned earth into man.

That sigh led my way into the spiritual world,
Announcing the glory of my soul; and there
It shall perpetuate until again we meet.

I remember when you kissed me and kissed me,
With tears coursing your cheeks, and you said,
"Earthly bodies must often separate for earthly purpose,
And must live apart impelled by worldly intent.

"But the spirit remains joined safely in the hands of
Love, until death arrives and takes joined souls to God.

"Go, my beloved; Love has chosen you her delegate;
Over her, for she is Beauty who offers to her follower
The cup of the sweetness of life.
As for my own empty arms, your love shall remain my
Comforting groom; you memory, my Eternal wedding."

Where are you now, my other self? Are you awake in
The silence of the night? Let the clean breeze convey
To you my heart's every beat and affection.

Are you fondling my face in your memory? That image
Is no longer my own, for Sorrow has dropped his
Shadow on my happy countenance of the past.

Sobs have withered my eyes which reflected your beauty
And dried my lips which you sweetened with kisses.

Where are you, my beloved? Do you hear my weeping
From beyond the ocean? Do you understand my need?
Do you know the greatness of my patience?

Is there any spirit in the air capable of conveying
To you the breath of this dying youth? Is there any
Secret communication between angels that will carry to
You my complaint?

Where are you, my beautiful star? The obscurity of life
Has cast me upon its bosom; sorrow has conquered me.

Sail your smile into the air; it will reach and enliven me!
Breathe your fragrance into the air; it will sustain me!

Where are you, my beloved?
Oh, how great is Love!
And how little am I!


"She loosed the chain and down she lay....The Lady of Shalott."


"Where are you, my beloved?"