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Anger, a spark, within all of us.
There, anger is lurking, waiting to
ignite the dynamite, that will
cause an explosion of words,
and actions, that can not be taken back.

Anger, is the roadblock, to anything
and everything, worthwhile in life.

Anger, seemingly an involuntary reaction,
to rejection of thought or action.

Anger, an interpretation, of unacceptable behavior.

Anger, almost always followed by regret.

Anger, an emotion. who’s children are,
anxiety, fear, frustration, animosity, passion,
outrage and a thousands of other, emotionally
affecting articulations.

Anger, the replacement of reason.

What is the enemy of anger? The
enemy of anger, is, patience, understanding
and love.

Anger, the emotion, the world would be
far better off, without.

Joe Fazio

All are architects of Fate,
Working in these walls of Time;
Some with massive deeds and great,
Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low;
Each thing in its place is best;
And what seems but idle show
Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials filled;
Our to-days and yesterdays
Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these;
Leave no yawning gaps between;
Think not, because no man sees,
Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of Art,
Builders wrought with greatest care
Each minute and unseen part;
For the Gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well,
Both the unseen and the seen;
Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete,
Standing in these walls of Time,
Broken stairways, where the feet
Stumble as they seek to climb.

Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base;
And ascending and secure
Shall to-morrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain
To those turrets, where the eye
Sees the world as one vast plain,
And one boundless reach of sky.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Silence builds an awful wreckage of a girl
It feeds on loneliness and creates a void
Gray shadows haunt and torment and torture
A teenager is stricken and destroyed

There is no sound of laughter or happiness here
The little one has thrown in the towel today
Somber, melancholy moods decay the soul
It is futile to hope and dream and pray

Emptiness builds a home in this woman
In this girl, this child where hollows have bred
A deepening sea of nowhereness consumes
And eats away at every connecting thread

Confusion feeds like a savage inside her,
Leaving nothing considered worthy remains
Destined to walk through life less ordinary
Alone, exiled, different and disdained.

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On my Grandmother’s side of the family I am related to the Macleod’s of Scotland. I have spent a lot of time researching the history of my family and came across this fairy love story. My Grandmother told me the story a while ago and to find it online is unreal. I also discovered that the story has been mentioned in several books on fairy lore. Here it is. If you like it then you can find out more by going to Dunvegan Castle’s website.

Article by Jeff Ramsden (MacLeoid)

Many, many years ago, the Chief of Clan MacLeod was a handsome,
intelligent man, and all the young ladies in the area were very attracted to him, but none suited his fancy. One day, he met a fairy princess, a bean sidhe, one of the Shining Folk. Like all the other females he met, she fell madly in love with him, and he with her as well. When the princess appealed to the King of the Fairies, for permission to marry the handsome Chief, he refused, saying that it would only break her heart, as humans soon age and die, and the Shining Folk live forever. She cried and wept so bitterly that even the great King relented, and agreed that she and the Chief could be hand-fasted for a year and a day. But, at the end of that time, she must return to the land of Faerie and leave behind everything from the human world. She agreed, and soon she and the young MacLeod were married with great ceremony.

No happier time ever existed before or since for the Clan MacLeod, for the Chief and Lady MacLeod were enraptured of each other totally. As you might expect, soon a strapping and handsome son was born to the happy couple, and the rejoicing and celebration by the Clan went on for days. However, the days soon passed and a year and a day were gone in a heartbeat. The King led the Faerie Raide down from the clouds to the end of the great causeway of Dunvegan Castle, and there they waited in all their glamourie and finery for the Lady MacLeod to keep her promise.

Lady MacLeod knew that she had no choice, so she held her son to her, hugged him tightly, and at last, ran from the castle tower to join the Faerie Raide, and returned with them to the land of Faerie. Before she left, however, she made her husband promise that her child would never be left alone, and never be allowed to cry, for she could not bear the sound of her son’s cries. The Chief was broken-hearted with the loss of his wife, but he knew, as did she, that the day would come when she would return. He kept his promise, and never was the young MacLeod allowed to cry and never was he left unattended. However, the Laird of MacLeod remained depressed, and grieved for the loss of his lady.

The folk of the clan decided that something must be done, and on his birthday, a great feast was proclaimed with revelry and dancing until dawn. The Laird had always been a grand dancer, and at long last he agreed to dance to the pipers’ tunes. So great was the celebration that the young maid assigned to watch the infant Laird left his nursery and crept to the top of the stairs to watch the folk dancing in all their finery and to listen to the wonderful music. So enraptured was she that she did not hear the young Laird awaken and begin to cry. So pitiful was his crying that it was heard all the way in the Land of Faerie, and when his mother heard it, she immediately appeared at his crib, took him in her arms, and comforted him, drying his tears and wrapping him in her fairy shawl. She whispered magic words in his ears, laid her now-sleeping son in his crib, kissed him once more on the forehead, and was gone.

Years later when the young lad grew older, he told his father of his mother’s late-night visit, and that her shawl was a magic talisman. It was to be kept in a safe place, and if anyone not of the Clan MacLeod touched it, they would vanish in a puff of smoke. If ever the Clan MacLeod faced mortal danger, the Fairy Flag was to be waved three times, and the hosts of Faerie, the Knights of the Faerie Raide, would ride to the defense of the Clan MacLeod. There were to be three such blessings, and only in the most dire consequences should the Faerie magic be used. The Chief placed the Fairy Flag in a special locked box, and it was carried with the Chief wherever he went.

Hundreds of years later, the fierce Clan Donald of the Lord of the Isles had besieged the MacLeods in battle, and the MacLeods were outnumbered three to one. Just before the Donalds’ last charge, the Chief opened the box, and placing the fairy flag on a pole, waved it once, twice, and three times. As the third wave was completed, the Fairy magic caused the MacLeods to appear to be ten times their number! Thinking that the MacLeods had been reinforced, the Donalds turned and ran, never to threaten the MacLeods to this very day.

On another occasion, a terrible plague had killed nearly all the MacLeod’s cattle, and the Chief faced the prospect of a winter of starvation for all his people. Having no alternative, he went to the tallest tower of Dunvegan Castle, attached the Fairy Flag to a pole, and waved it once, twice, three times. The Hosts of Faerie rode down from the clouds, swords drawn, and rode like the wind over the dead and dying cattle. They touched each cow with their swords, and where there once had been dead and dying cows, now stood huge, healthy, and well-fattened cattle, more than enough to feed the Clan for the winter to come.

There remains one more waving of the Fairy Flag, and the Flag is on display at Dunvegan Castle, there awaiting the next threat to the Clan MacLeod.

It is said during World War II that young men from the Clan MacLeod carried pictures of the Flag in their wallets while flying in the Battle of Britain, and not one of them was lost to the German flyers. In fact, the Chief of Clan MacLeod had agreed to bring the Fairy Flag to England and wave it from the Cliffs of Dover should the Germans attempt to invade Great Britain.

A float parades during the 126th edition of the Nice Carnival, Saturday, Feb. 13, 2010, in Nice, southern France. This year’s carnival celebrates the theme “King of the Blue Planet”. (AP Photo/ Lionel Cironneau)

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


The Highwayman

by

Alfred Noyes

PART ONE

I

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

V

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

VI

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.

PART TWO

I

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o’ the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

II

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love’s refrain .

VI

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

VIII

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

X

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

“Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.” William Wordsworth

http://www.nature.org/

http://www.plantabillion.org/

 

 

I think they are beautiful. I’m using this photo as my desktop background for a while.

 

I’ll post the rest later…..