From a land of morning calm far across the deep sea
In a crystal palace shining like the North Star in the night sky,
She selects her own society
Then shuts the door;
Into her delightful variety
She hears a galloping stopping
At the ancient stable of Artemis;
Still, a kingly hunter is bowing
To her Sovereign Grace.
I know her from the land that is no longer a land
when she was a changeling abandoned in the wood with streams of her sorrow gushing out of her eyes So don’t let me see her drown in the sea of sadness – evermore.
That which they called Providence,
A divine scheme of God’s purposes,
Was the handiwork of Fair Fortune,
The ancient idea of lucky chances
Of adventures and misadventures,
Knocking the door of a poor man’s hut
With a pouch of lucky stars regardless
Of what the world saw for his worth,
Pacifying his ills of grief and grievances.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The doctrine of providence that a man’s life was an intricate handiwork of God’s mysterious purposes was a tenet of Protestantism which, as a counter-cultural way of resisting medieval Catholicism, advocated zealous work ethics in an effort to combine a practical faith with an active self-reliance and independence. That riches and authority came of men’s industry and diligence, of their labor and travails, not of miracles as a result of mechanical recitations of prayers and devotions to saints was the canonical principle of the reformed church. However, the folks who were not well-off, not-too-rich, poor, and very poor never subscribed to the doctrine of providence. They still clang to the concept of luck because it accounted for any misfortune befalling them regardless of merits and efforts when others wayward seemed to prosper. By believing in luck or chance that reformists condemned, he who in travails did not have to jeopardize his self-esteem as something of a mental analgesic against the strains of his contemporary life, lest he should fall by the wayside, and thus could reconcile himself to the environment he lived. Hence this belief in luck survived the seismic protestant reformation and still thrives on in our time.
Byron said he woke up and found himself famous one morning, and I dare to say I woke up and found myself properly surprised this morning.
The cause of such pleasant surprise that gave a fillip to my otherwise grim and dreary Monday morning was my favorite author Stuart Kells’s tweet containing my previous poem titled “Where is his library?” inspired by his books Shakespeare’s Library and the Library: A Catalogue of wonders and his recent podcast interview with Abe Books about Shakespeare’s authorship. I am truly appreciative of his recognition of my humble writing often streaked with solecism due to English being my second language.
Thanks to this wonderful tweet, I could withstand the cruel cold morning at the barren train station waiting for the train to work this morning- with pleasure. C.K. Chesterton said a great person is great because he or she encourages others however amateurish their works may be. I can no other answer make but thanks and thanks and thanks.