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Every misfortune is a blessing.

African proverbs
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Hermann And Dorothea - I. Kalliope

FATE AND SYMPATHY.

'NE'ER have I seen the market and streets so thoroughly empty!
Still as the grave is the town, clear'd out! I verily fancy
Fifty at most of all our inhabitants still may be found there.
People are so inquisitive! All are running and racing
Merely to see the sad train of poor fellows driven to exile.
Down to the causeway now building, the distance nearly a league is,
And they thitherward rush, in the heat and the dust of the noonday.
As for me, I had rather not stir from my place just to stare at
Worthy and sorrowful fugitives, who, with what goods they can carry,
Leaving their own fair land on the further side of the Rhine-stream,
Over to us are crossing, and wander through the delightful
Nooks of this fruitful vale, with all its twistings and windings.
Wife, you did right well to bid our son go and meet them,
Taking with him old linen, and something to eat and to drink too,
Just to give to the poor; the rich are bound to befriend them.
How he is driving along! How well he holds in the horses!
Then the new little carriage looks very handsome; inside it
Four can easily sit, besides the one on the coachbox.
This time he is alone; how easily-turns it the corner!'
Thus to his wife the host of the Golden Lion discoursed,
Sitting at ease in the porch of his house adjoining the market.
Then replied as follows the shrewd and sensible hostess
'Father, I don't like giving old linen away, for I find it
Useful in so many ways, 'tis not to he purchased for money
Just when it's wanted. And yet to-day I gladly have given
Many excellent articles, shirts and covers and suchlike;
For I have heard of old people and children walking half-naked.
Will you forgive me, too, for having ransacked your presses?
That grand dressing-gown, cover'd with Indian flowers all over,
Made of the finest calico, lined with excellent flannel,
I have despatch'd with the rest; 'tis thin, old, quite out of fashion.'

But the worthy landlord only smiled, and then answer'd
I shall dreadfully miss that ancient calico garment,
Genuine Indian stuff! They're not to be had any longer.
Well! I shall wear it no more. And your poor husband henceforward
Always must wear a surtout, I suppose, or commonplace jacket,
Always must put on his boots; good bye to cap and to slippers!'

'See,' continued his wife, 'a few are already returning
Who have seen the procession, which long ago must have pass'd by.
See how dusty their shoes are, and how their faces are glowing
Each one carries a handkerchief, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
I, for one, wouldn't hurry and worry myself in such weather
Merely to see such a sight! I'm certain to hear all about it.'

And the worthy father, speaking with emphasis, added
'Such fine weather seldom lasts through the whole of the harvest

[...] Read more

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Jubilate Agno: Fragment B, Part 4

For God has given us a language of monosyllables to prevent our clipping.

For a toad enjoys a finer prospect than another creature to compensate his lack.

Tho' toad I am the object of man's hate.
Yet better am I than a reprobate. who has the worst of prospects.
For there are stones, whose constituent particles are little toads.

For the spiritual musick is as follows.

For there is the thunder-stop, which is the voice of God direct.

For the rest of the stops are by their rhimes.

For the trumpet rhimes are sound bound, soar more and the like.

For the Shawm rhimes are lawn fawn moon boon and the like.

For the harp rhimes are sing ring string and the like.

For the cymbal rhimes are bell well toll soul and the like.

For the flute rhimes are tooth youth suit mute and the like.

For the dulcimer rhimes are grace place beat heat and the like.

For the Clarinet rhimes are clean seen and the like.

For the Bassoon rhimes are pass, class and the like. God be gracious to Baumgarden.

For the dulcimer are rather van fan and the like and grace place &c are of the bassoon.

For beat heat, weep peep &c are of the pipe.

For every word has its marrow in the English tongue for order and for delight.

For the dissyllables such as able table &c are the fiddle rhimes.

For all dissyllables and some trissyllables are fiddle rhimes.

For the relations of words are in pairs first.

For the relations of words are sometimes in oppositions.

For the relations of words are according to their distances from the pair.

For there be twelve cardinal virtues the gifts of the twelve sons of Jacob.

For Reuben is Great. God be gracious to Lord Falmouth.

[...] Read more

poem by Christopher Smart
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Once I Was

Once
you clapped
for me.

Now
you clap
for another.

Once
I was
your luck.

Now
your luck
is gone.

Now
your luck
is lost.

Once
I was your
Blessing.

Now
your blessing
is gone.

Now
your blessing
is lost.

Once
a blessing
in disguise.

Now
a blessing
denied.

Soon
your blessing
is leaving.

Soon
a blessing
in departure.

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Git Along Little Dogies

As I was walking one morning for pleasure
I spied a cowpuncher riding along
His hat was throwed back and his spurs were a-jingling
And as he approached he was singing this song
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies
It's your misfortune and none of my own
Whoopie ti yi yo, git along little dogies
You know that Wyoming will be your new home
Early in the springtime we round up the dogies
Mark 'em and brand 'em and bob off their tails
Round up the horses, load up the chuck wagon
Then throw the little dogies out on the long trail
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies
It's your misfortune and none of my own
Whoopie ti yi yo, git along little dogies
You know that Wyoming will be your new home
Night comes on and we hold 'em on the bedground
The same little dogies that rolled on so slow
We roll up the herd and cut out the stray ones
Then roll the little dogies like never before
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies
It's your misfortune and none of my own
Whoopie ti yi yo, git along little dogies
You know that Wyoming will be your new home
Some boys go up the long trail for pleasure
But that's where they get it most awfully wrong
For you'll never know the trouble they give us
As we go drivin' them dogies along
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies
It's your misfortune and none of my own
Whoopie ti yi yo, git along little dogies
You know that Wyoming will be your new home
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies
It's your misfortune and none of my own
Whoopie ti yi yo, git along little dogies
You know that Wyoming will be your new home
You know that Wyoming will be your new home

song performed by Nickel Creek
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Blessing In Disguise

Are you lonely?
Are you Crying?
Are those teardrops in your eyes
is it more blues, is is bad news,
is it a curse?, or a blessing in disguise.
Did you leave him?, do you love him?
Have you said your, said your last goodbyes
Is it over, hey
are you sorry?
Could it be a blessing in disguise
It's the scars that make you stronger
It's the hard times that make you rise,
It's the sweet things that only time bring, yeah
Gonna ride back a blessing in disguise
Ooooooooohhhhh!
Clouds roll by, and bring the rain
tears wiped dry to ease the pain
oh!
Are you lonely?
Are you Crying?
Are those teardrops in your eyes
is it more blues, is is bad news,
is it a curse?, or a blessing in disguise.
Is it a curse or a blessing in disguise
Is it a curse or a blessing in disguise
Is it a curse or a blessing in disguise

song performed by Bryan Adams
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Even Me

Written by roberta martin / fanny crosby
Lord I hear of showers of blessings
Thou art scattering full and free
Showers the thirsty souls refreshing
Let some drops now fall on me
Pass me not oh gentle saviour
Sinful though my heart may be
I am longing for your favor
Whilst thou art blessing
Oh lord
Come on and bless me
Even me lord
Even me
Even me lord
Even me
Let some drops
Let some drops
Whilst thou art blessing
Oh lord
Stop by and bless me
Oh stop by lord
Yes and bless me
Bless me
Protect me
Direct me
Even me lord
I need you
To come on down
And bless me
Sinful though my heart may be
I need you to come down
And bless me
Yes
While
Whilst thou art blessing
While you are in the blessing business today
Not tomorrow
I need you today
Yeah
Bless me
Protect me
Direct me
Even me lord
To stop by
Just drop by
Oh lord lord lord lord lord lord lord
Bless me
Even me
Even me lord
Yeah

[...] Read more

song performed by Yolanda Adams
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Even Me

Written by roberta martin / fanny crosby
Lord I hear of showers of blessings
Thou art scattering full and free
Showers the thirsty souls refreshing
Let some drops now fall on me
Pass me not oh gentle saviour
Sinful though my heart may be
I am longing for your favor
Whilst thou art blessing
Oh lord
Come on and bless me
Even me lord
Even me
Even me lord
Even me
Let some drops
Let some drops
Whilst thou art blessing
Oh lord
Stop by and bless me
Oh stop by lord
Yes and bless me
Bless me
Protect me
Direct me
Even me lord
I need you
To come on down
And bless me
Sinful though my heart may be
I need you to come down
And bless me
Yes
While
Whilst thou art blessing
While you are in the blessing business today
Not tomorrow
I need you today
Yeah
Bless me
Protect me
Direct me
Even me lord
To stop by
Just drop by
Oh lord lord lord lord lord lord lord
Bless me
Even me
Even me lord
Yeah

[...] Read more

song performed by Yolanda Adams
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Dangerous Pastime

Is it a blessing,
To have nine lives?
Is it a blessing,
To Know no lies?

Is it a blessing,
To seek the Truth?
Is it a blessing,
To lose one's youth?

Is it a blessing,
To think these thoughts,
As Death takes sips,
From our life draughts?

Is it a blessing,
To hold her hand,
As it slowly fades,
And turns to sand?

Is it a blessing,
To die with her,
Or live on still,
A lonely cur?

And do my thoughts,
Yet waste my time?
And do your thoughts,
Still coincide?

And shall we walk,
And wish to fly,
And ask the skies,
For just more time?

Shall we yet wait
Your hand in mine?
And listen still
For a reply?

Or shall we live,
Woman and man,
And spend our time,
The best we can?

Curiosity killed the cat,
But the cat has nine lives.

Eight left,
what's next,

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poem by William Blake Beckett
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V. Count Guido Franceschini

Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Metamorphoses: Book The Sixth

PALLAS, attending to the Muse's song,
Approv'd the just resentment of their wrong;
And thus reflects: While tamely I commend
Those who their injur'd deities defend,
My own divinity affronted stands,
And calls aloud for justice at my hands;
Then takes the hint, asham'd to lag behind,
And on Arachne' bends her vengeful mind;
One at the loom so excellently skill'd,
That to the Goddess she refus'd to yield.
The Low was her birth, and small her native town,
Transformation She from her art alone obtain'd renown.
of Arachne Idmon, her father, made it his employ,
into a Spider To give the spungy fleece a purple dye:
Of vulgar strain her mother, lately dead,
With her own rank had been content to wed;
Yet she their daughter, tho' her time was spent
In a small hamlet, and of mean descent,
Thro' the great towns of Lydia gain'd a name,
And fill'd the neighb'ring countries with her fame.
Oft, to admire the niceness of her skill,
The Nymphs would quit their fountain, shade, or
hill:
Thither, from green Tymolus, they repair,
And leave the vineyards, their peculiar care;
Thither, from fam'd Pactolus' golden stream,
Drawn by her art, the curious Naiads came.
Nor would the work, when finish'd, please so much,
As, while she wrought, to view each graceful touch;
Whether the shapeless wool in balls she wound,
Or with quick motion turn'd the spindle round,
Or with her pencil drew the neat design,
Pallas her mistress shone in every line.
This the proud maid with scornful air denies,
And ev'n the Goddess at her work defies;
Disowns her heav'nly mistress ev'ry hour,
Nor asks her aid, nor deprecates her pow'r.
Let us, she cries, but to a tryal come,
And, if she conquers, let her fix my doom.
The Goddess then a beldame's form put on,
With silver hairs her hoary temples shone;
Prop'd by a staff, she hobbles in her walk,
And tott'ring thus begins her old wives' talk.
Young maid attend, nor stubbornly despise
The admonitions of the old, and wise;
For age, tho' scorn'd, a ripe experience bears,
That golden fruit, unknown to blooming years:
Still may remotest fame your labours crown,
And mortals your superior genius own;
But to the Goddess yield, and humbly meek

[...] Read more

poem by Ovid
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Blessings Of Life

rain good friend to soil
your blessing is soft moist earth
rain good friend to plants
your blessing is fruitful growing life

rain good friend to animals
your blessing is healthy vibrant diversity
rain good friend to dry land
your blessing is lakes streams rivers

rain everywhere I rapture look
yours blessing bestows beauty

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Enoch Arden

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf
In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill;
And high in heaven behind it a gray down
With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood,
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

Here on this beach a hundred years ago,
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee,
The prettiest little damsel in the port,
And Philip Ray the miller's only son,
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd
Among the waste and lumber of the shore,
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn,
And built their castles of dissolving sand
To watch them overflow'd, or following up
And flying the white breaker, daily left
The little footprint daily wash'd away.

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff:
In this the children play'd at keeping house.
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next,
While Annie still was mistress; but at times
Enoch would hold possession for a week:
`This is my house and this my little wife.'
`Mine too' said Philip `turn and turn about:'
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger-made
Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears,
Shriek out `I hate you, Enoch,' and at this
The little wife would weep for company,
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake,
And say she would be little wife to both.

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past,
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love,
But Philip loved in silence; and the girl
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him;
But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not,
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set
A purpose evermore before his eyes,
To hoard all savings to the uttermost,
To purchase his own boat, and make a home

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Moat House

PART I

I

UNDER the shade of convent towers,
Where fast and vigil mark the hours,
From childhood into youth there grew
A maid as fresh as April dew,
And sweet as May's ideal flowers,

Brighter than dawn in wind-swept skies,
Like children's dreams most pure, unwise,
Yet with a slumbering soul-fire too,
That sometimes shone a moment through
Her wondrous unawakened eyes.

The nuns, who loved her coldly, meant
The twig should grow as it was bent;
That she, like them, should watch youth's bier,
Should watch her day-dreams disappear,
And go the loveless way they went.

The convent walls were high and grey;
How could Love hope to find a way
Into that citadel forlorn,
Where his dear name was put to scorn,
Or called a sinful thing to say?

Yet Love did come; what need to tell
Of flowers downcast, that sometimes fell
Across her feet when dreamily
She paced, with unused breviary,
Down paths made still with August's spell--

Of looks cast through the chapel grate,
Of letters helped by Love and Fate,
That to cold fingers did not come
But lay within a warmer home,
Upon her heart inviolate?

Somehow he loved her--she loved him:
Then filled her soul's cup to the brim,
And all her daily life grew bright
With such a flood of rosy light
As turned the altar candles dim.

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poem by Edith Nesbit
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Three prayers during spring

I. I did not expect this early spring

I did not expect that after this severe winter
that destroyed flowers, grass and plants
that this early
without even rain falling, showering down
spring would come in all this glory

with trees blossoming in bright white and pink colours
plants flowering
unfurling and to be again really living.

I did not expect these blessings,
in life’s early winter
that even though I am constrained,
my career is falling to pieces
and not by my own making
my words, my verses
are coming to their own

and this has brought me
to see that God is truly great
that even the seasons of life
is in His hand.

II. My buds are form Your hand

I thank you Lord that you by grace are blessing me
causing my slender flowers to grow,
that you let my words pour down like rain

hanging flooding over in bell like strings
in internodes, joints of roses
in a pure white colouring which catches the eye

that by love you delegate me as the one
who is worth to blossom in your shade.
I thank you Lord that you by grace are blessing me

not like others of my kind, but hanging
with odourless buds opening
in internodes, joints of roses

in strings upon strings
and although some people want to prune me of blunt,
that you let my words pour down like rain

although people hit in nails
ridicule, hold my words, my verses in parody

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poem by Gert Strydom
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Kissing A Misfortune

Kissing a misfortune
Is a life`s last endeavour
As you never make a return.

Kissing a misfortune
Is a man`s lost game
As you don`t have a partner in it.

A slipped word,
A wrong unknowingly done and
A right forgotten to be done...

Kissing a misfortune
Is a friend`s tragedy and
Indeed a life`s ghost.

poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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Shining Star[Makin My Love]

Eddie boy lit like paraffin spending two weeks in a crack house
Burns on his brain like chernobyl
Dean was seen with a two bag purchase
He was lying dead on his mothers bed
Someone to pray for-till I met you
Life is like a broken arrow
Memory a swingin door
I could be your great misfortune
I can make you happy every day of your life
Making my love like a shining star
Takin my love just a touch too far
Tessie turns tricks with a soul like ice cause love left holes
And four swell kids breaking her heart
Ive got windows, Ive seen much vice, Ive touched down with vermin,
Cowardice, lice,
And I say
Nobody cares what you do
Please be yourself to death
I could be your great misfortune
But youll never find a
Bet youll never find a better man.
Making my love like a shining star
Taking my love just a touch too far
Peter met frank formed a dummy run gang
Worked heist or hit for 10 gs flat
Blew heads outta shape for the name of trotsky,
Sinn-fein, hitler cashdown
No hope heroes cover this page with depts in hell
And fingers in blood
Poor little bodies all covered in scabs
Threw it all away
Have a life in the grave
Have a life in the grave
Life is like a broken arrow
Memory a swingin door
I could be your great misfortune
Well I could make you happy every goddamn single day of your life
Making my love like a shining star
Like a shining star
Babe thats what you are
Like a shining star
Making my love like a shining star
Taking my love
Just a touch too far
Making my love like a shining star
Taking my love
Just a touch too far
Making my love like a shining star
Taking my love
Just a touch too far

[...] Read more

song performed by David Bowie
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Kohinoor...unlucky stone

I am black unshaped stone
Simple but famous for quality alone
When cut to size may assume name of diamond
All envy keen interest and passion found

Many may inherit fortune with precious stone
Prosperity may return and poverty gone
It may shadow bad luck and misfortune
Life may go astray with rhythm out of tune

Such is story of diamond “Kohinoor” in possession
Previously found with princely states with obsession
Sikhs got it with downfall and recession
British too lost empire with no concession

Where ever it traveled misfortune followed
Uprooting of states and downfall allowed
Humiliation and shame had to be swallowed
Revenge, hate and reprisal got to be vowed

“Kohinoor” came to be known as unlucky treasure
Cut into size was mounting pressure
British obliged and cut into pieces assured
Not to pass to any one promise reassured

British too were reduced to small empire
Golden days passed with good fame to expire
Many attempted it to claim and acquire
Legal bindings and claims too required

History may not repeat with its curse and fall out
Kohinoor may stay in vault and not invite rout
World may know nothing what it is all about
It is tale of destruction and misfortune spell out

Still it adores British crown
No significance but only in noun
Many countries claim and eyes frown
British too unwilling and claimdisown

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Thurso’s Landing

I
The coast-road was being straightened and repaired again,
A group of men labored at the steep curve
Where it falls from the north to Mill Creek. They scattered and hid
Behind cut banks, except one blond young man
Who stooped over the rock and strolled away smiling
As if he shared a secret joke with the dynamite;
It waited until he had passed back of a boulder,
Then split its rock cage; a yellowish torrent
Of fragments rose up the air and the echoes bumped
From mountain to mountain. The men returned slowly
And took up their dropped tools, while a banner of dust
Waved over the gorge on the northwest wind, very high
Above the heads of the forest.
Some distance west of the road,
On the promontory above the triangle
Of glittering ocean that fills the gorge-mouth,
A woman and a lame man from the farm below
Had been watching, and turned to go down the hill. The young
woman looked back,
Widening her violet eyes under the shade of her hand. 'I think
they'll blast again in a minute.'
And the man: 'I wish they'd let the poor old road be. I don't
like improvements.' 'Why not?' 'They bring in the world;
We're well without it.' His lameness gave him some look of age
but he was young too; tall and thin-faced,
With a high wavering nose. 'Isn't he amusing,' she said, 'that
boy Rick Armstrong, the dynamite man,
How slowly he walks away after he lights the fuse. He loves to
show off. Reave likes him, too,'
She added; and they clambered down the path in the rock-face,
little dark specks
Between the great headland rock and the bright blue sea.

II
The road-workers had made their camp
North of this headland, where the sea-cliff was broken down and
sloped to a cove. The violet-eyed woman's husband,
Reave Thurso, rode down the slope to the camp in the gorgeous
autumn sundown, his hired man Johnny Luna
Riding behind him. The road-men had just quit work and four
or five were bathing in the purple surf-edge,
The others talked by the tents; blue smoke fragrant with food
and oak-wood drifted from the cabin stove-pipe
And slowly went fainting up the vast hill.
Thurso drew rein by
a group of men at a tent door
And frowned at them without speaking, square-shouldered and
heavy-jawed, too heavy with strength for so young a man,
He chose one of the men with his eyes. 'You're Danny Woodruff,

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poem by Robinson Jeffers
Added by Poetry Lover
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III. The Other Half-Rome

Another day that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
And lamentable smile on those poor lips,
And, under the white hospital-array,
A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise
You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again,
Alive i' the ruins. 'T is a miracle.
It seems that, when her husband struck her first,
She prayed Madonna just that she might live
So long as to confess and be absolved;
And whether it was that, all her sad life long
Never before successful in a prayer,
This prayer rose with authority too dread,—
Or whether, because earth was hell to her,
By compensation, when the blackness broke
She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue,
To show her for a moment such things were,—
Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks,
The friar who took confession from her lip,—
When a probationary soul that moved
From nobleness to nobleness, as she,
Over the rough way of the world, succumbs,
Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot,
The angels love to do their work betimes,
Staunch some wounds here nor leave so much for God.
Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved,
She lies, with overplus of life beside
To speak and right herself from first to last,
Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave,
Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son
From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus,
And—with best smile of all reserved for him—
Pardon that sire and husband from the heart.
A miracle, so tell your Molinists!

There she lies in the long white lazar-house.
Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt,
Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear
Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge
When the reluctant wicket opes at last,
Lets in, on now this and now that pretence,
Too many by half,—complain the men of art,—
For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first
Paid the due visit—justice must be done;
They took her witness, why the murder was.
Then the priests followed properly,—a soul
To shrive; 't was Brother Celestine's own right,
The same who noises thus her gifts abroad.
But many more, who found they were old friends,
Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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