It certainly gives us things to think about. And thank you, too, Doyle, for sharing what you learned about Amy Carmichael. A woman to emulate, because she followed our Savior! Very powerful. And thanks Doyle for sharing the history behind it. A woman to emulate, is right!
It includes all the saints around the world throughout history. We are not alone! And our stories become part of that tapestry, so that other people can benefit from the lessons we learn. They are hoping they will be presiding Over just when and where I will burn. And beneath a red moon, it is howling For it knows I will be there again. I have heard the death clock at its chiming, For my day of destruction is nigh.
And the dark has impeccable timing, As it rolls in the gray-clouded sky. As I see it, my panic is climbing.
No one fears it more greatly than I. I have listened to whispers appalling, As they try to tell me what to do. But their voices are nothing but galling, And my spirit, they want to accrue. Tomorrow would bring its own trial with it; so would the next day, and so would the next: each its own trial, and yet the very same that was now so unutterably grievous to be borne. The days of the far-off future would toil onward, still with the same burden for her to take up, and bear along with her, but never to fling down; for the accumulating days and added years would pile up their misery upon the heap of shame.
Throughout them all, giving up her individuality, she would become the general symbol at which the preacher and moralist might point, and in which they might vivify and embody their images of woman's frailty and sinful passion. Thus the young and pure would be taught to look at her, with the scarlet letter flaming on her breast--at her, the child of honourable parents--at her, the mother of a babe that would hereafter be a woman--at her, who had once been innocent--as the figure, the body, the reality of sin.
And over her grave, the infamy that she must carry thither would be her only monument. It may seem marvellous that, with the world before her--kept by no restrictive clause of her condemnation within the limits of the Puritan settlement, so remote and so obscure--free to return to her birth-place, or to any other European land, and there hide her character and identity under a new exterior, as completely as if emerging into another state of being--and having also the passes of the dark, inscrutable forest open to her, where the wildness of her nature might assimilate itself with a people whose customs and life were alien from the law that had condemned her--it may seem marvellous that this woman should still call that place her home, where, and where only, she must needs be the type of shame.
But there is a fatality, a feeling so irresistible and inevitable that it has the force of doom, which almost invariably compels human beings to linger around and haunt, ghost-like, the spot where some great and marked event has given the colour to their lifetime; and, still the more irresistibly, the darker the tinge that saddens it.
Her sin, her ignominy, were the roots which she had struck into the soil. It was as if a new birth, with stronger assimilations than the first, had converted the forest-land, still so uncongenial to every other pilgrim and wanderer, into Hester Prynne's wild and dreary, but life-long home. All other scenes of earth--even that village of rural England, where happy infancy and stainless maidenhood seemed yet to be in her mother's keeping, like garments put off long ago--were foreign to her, in comparison.
The chain that bound her here was of iron links, and galling to her inmost soul, but could never be broken. It might be, too--doubtless it was so, although she hid the secret from herself, and grew pale whenever it struggled out of her heart, like a serpent from its hole--it might be that another feeling kept her within the scene and pathway that had been so fatal.
There dwelt, there trode, the feet of one with whom she deemed herself connected in a union that, unrecognised on earth, would bring them together before the bar of final judgment, and make that their marriage-altar, for a joint futurity of endless retribution.
Over and over again, the tempter of souls had thrust this idea upon Hester's contemplation, and laughed at the passionate an desperate joy with which she seized, and then strove to cast it from her. She barely looked the idea in the face, and hastened to bar it in its dungeon. What she compelled herself to believe--what, finally, she reasoned upon as her motive for continuing a resident of New England--was half a truth, and half a self-delusion.
Here, she said to herself had been the scene of her guilt, and here should be the scene of her earthly punishment; and so, perchance, the torture of her daily shame would at length purge her soul, and work out another purity than that which she had lost: more saint-like, because the result of martyrdom.
Hester Prynne, therefore, did not flee. On the outskirts of the town, within the verge of the peninsula, but not in close vicinity to any other habitation, there was a small thatched cottage. It had been built by an earlier settler, and abandoned, because the soil about it was too sterile for cultivation, while its comparative remoteness put it out of the sphere of that social activity which already marked the habits of the emigrants. It stood on the shore, looking across a basin of the sea at the forest-covered hills, towards the west.
A clump of scrubby trees, such as alone grew on the peninsula, did not so much conceal the cottage from view, as seem to denote that here was some object which would fain have been, or at least ought to be, concealed. Morphine, chloroform, horse tranquilizers! You drugged him! That's all his stuff! Oh, aren't those cool new skates? Now you be careful with those, you don't want to fall and break something.
Um, let me give you a "hand". Points : 3 He was the only one who told a fictional story. He uses the poem to teach and entertain. His poem includes element of fiction and non-fiction. He is the most serious writer. Which is a reference to a legendary island that disappeared into the ocean? Points : 3 Clemente Noah Atlantis Waterloo.
Answer Save. Shakespearean iambic pentameter bah-bum, bah-bum, bah-bum, bah-bum, bah-bum. Thy love is such I can no way repay.
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