The Materialistic Maiden

Where I sip coffee and tirelessly transcribe.

Category: Uncategorized

Hiatus

Due to personal circumstances, this blog will be temporarily (God willing) on hiatus. I have a few scheduled posts due to go up after this is posted; otherwise, don’t give up hope when there aren’t any updates for a while, for I’ll be back.

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“New Year’s Eve, 1844” by James Russell Lowell

New Year’s Eve, 1844
James Russell Lowell

The night is calm and beautiful; the snow
Sparkles beneath the clear and frosty moon
And the cold stars, as if it took delight
In its own silent whiteness; the hushed earth
Sleeps in the soft arms of the embracing blue,
Secure as if angelic squadrons yet
Encamped about her, and each watching star
Gained double brightness from the flashing arms
Of winged and unsleeping sentinels.
Upward the calm of infinite silence deepens,
The sea that flows between high heaven and earth,
Musing by whose smooth brink we sometimes find
A stray leaf floated from those happier shores,
And hope, perchance not vainly, that some flower,
Which we had watered with our holiest tears,
Pale blooms, and yet our scanty garden’s best,
O’er the same ocean piloted by love,
May find a haven at the feet of God,
And be not wholly worthless in his sight.

O, high dependence on a higher Power,
Sole stay for all these restless faculties
That wander, Ishmael-like, the desert bare
Wherein our human knowledge hath its home,
Shifting their light-framed tents from day to day,
With each new-found oasis, wearied soon,
And only certain of uncertainty!
O, mighty humbleness that feels with awe,
Yet with a vast exulting feels, no less,
That this huge Minster of the Universe,
Whose smallest oratories are glorious worlds,
With painted oriels of dawn and sunset;
Whose carved ornaments are systems grand,
Orion kneeling in his starry niche,
The Lyre whose strings give music audible
To holy ears, and countless splendors more,
Crowned by the blazing Cross high-hung o’er all;
Whose organ music is the solemn stops
Of endless Change breathed through by endless Good;
Whose choristers are all the morning stars;
Whose altar is the sacred human heart
Whereon Love’s candles burn unquenchably,
Trimmed day and night by gentle-handed Peace;
With all its arches and its pinnacles
That stretch forever and forever up,
Is founded on the silent heart of God,
Silent, yet pulsing forth exhaustless life
Through the least veins of all created things.

Fit musings these for the departing year;
And God be thanked for such a crystal night
As fills the spirit with good store of thoughts,
That, like a cheering fire of walnut, crackle
Upon the hearthstone of the heart, and cast
A mild home-glow o’er all Humanity!
Yes, though the poisoned shafts of evil doubts
Assail the skyey panoply of Faith,
Though the great hopes which we have had for man,
Foes in disguise, because they based belief
On man’s endeavor, not on God’s decree–
Though these proud-visaged hopes, once turned to fly,
Hurl backward many a deadly Parthian dart
That rankles in the soul and makes it sick
With vain regret, nigh verging on despair–
Yet, in such calm and earnest hours as this,
We well can feel how every living heart
That sleeps to-night in palace or in cot,
Or unroofed hovel, or which need hath known
Of other homestead than the arching sky,
Is circled watchfully with seraph fires;
How our own erring will it is that hangs
The flaming sword o’er Eden’s unclosed gate,
Which gives free entrance to the pure in heart,
And with its guarding walls doth fence the meek.

Sleep then, O Earth, in thy blue-vaulted cradle,
Bent over always by thy mother Heaven!
We all are tall enough to reach God’s hand,
And angels are no taller: looking back
Upon the smooth wake of a year o’erpast,
We see the black clouds furling, one by one,
From the advancing majesty of Truth,
And something won for Freedom, whose least gain
Is as a firm and rock-built citadel
Wherefrom to launch fresh battle on her foes;
Or, leaning from the time’s extremest prow,
If we gaze forward through the blinding spray,
And dimly see how much of ill remains,
How many fetters to be sawn asunder
By the slow toil of individual zeal,
Or haply rusted by salt tears in twain,
We feel, with something of a sadder heart,
Yet bracing up our bruised mail the while,
And fronting the old foe with fresher spirit,
How great it is to breathe with human breath,
To be but poor foot-soldiers in the ranks
Of our old exiled king, Humanity;
Encamping after every hard-won field
Nearer and nearer Heaven’s happy plains.

Many great souls have gone to rest, and sleep
Under this armor, free and full of peace:
If these have left the earth, yet Truth remains,
Endurance, too, the crowning faculty
Of noble minds, and Love, invincible
By any weapons; and these hem us round
With silence such that all the groaning clank
Of this mad engine men have made of earth
Dulls not some ears for catching purer tones,
That wander from the dim surrounding vast,
Or far more clear melodious prophecies,
The natural music of the heart of man,
Which by kind Sorrow’s ministry hath learned
That the true sceptre of all power is love
And humbleness the palace-gate of truth.
What man with soul so blind as sees not here
The first faint tremble of Hope’s morning-star,
Foretelling how the God-forged shafts of dawn,
Fitted already on their golden string,
Shall soon leap earthward with exulting flight
To thrid the dark heart of that evil faith
Whose trust is in the clumsy arms of Force,
The ozier hauberk of a ruder age?
Freedom! thou other name for happy Truth,
Thou warrior-maid, whose steel-clad feet were never
Out of the stirrup, nor thy lance uncouched,
Nor thy fierce eye enticed from its watch,
Thou hast learned now, by hero-blood in vain
Poured to enrich the soil which tyrants reap;
By wasted lives of prophets, and of those
Who, by the promise in their souls upheld,
Into the red arms of a fiery death
Went blithely as the golden-girdled bee
Sinks in the sleepy poppy’s cup of flame;
By the long woes of nations set at war,
That so the swollen torrent of their wrath
May find a vent, else sweeping off like straws
The thousand cobweb threads, grown cable-huge
By time’s long-gathered dust, but cobwebs still,
Which bind the Many that the Few may gain
Leisure to wither by the drought of ease
What heavenly germs in their own souls were sown;–
By all these searching lessons thou hast learned
To throw aside thy blood-stained helm and spear
And with thy bare brow daunt the enemy’s front,
Knowing that God will make the lily stalk,
In the soft grasp of naked Gentleness,
Stronger than iron spear to shatter through
The sevenfold toughness of Wrong’s idle shield.

In the case that I don’t transcribe a work, I source my borrowings. This transcription is borrowed from the following incredible source, and credit goes to their transcribers.

“December” by Edmund Ollier

December
Edmund Ollier
From The Living Age, Vol. 40.

THE unseen Presence with the noiseless wing—
Time—has swept bare the bounteous earth at last,
And Summer’s green and crimson shows have past
From out men’s sight, like cloud-shapes when winds sing.

The seeds, which from the year’s great ripening
Were shaken, and within the warm earth cast,
Live but in future life, and slumbering fast,
Lie waiting for the vital breath of Spring.

And all is thoughtful, vacant, dusk and still;
A Sabbath pause, a resting everywhere,
A sleep and a thanksgiving, which now fill
The world, and make its bareness seem less bare.
The winds are laid, no sound is in the rill,
And not a murmur ripples the smooth air.

Please consider a poem of mine, submitted to Vita Brevis.

Submitted by Ann Neilson I feel thine absence, I mourn thy loss, My dearest friend whom I n’er have met. Dewy is the parting cobweb, flossed, une mélancolie veil upon thy dampened cheek, Long since reposing, entangled by earth’s decay, n’er longer exposed to thy darkened dismay. The tolling bells doth not ring for thee, […]

via May 17, 2017 — Vita Brevis

“Autumn Thoughts” by John Greenleaf Whittier

After an unexpected absence, I am back to continue my Autumnal-themed poetry and prose postings. To celebrate, I present a poem by one of my favorite poets-you’ve guessed it(!)- dear John G. Whittier. —Ann Neilson

Autumn Thoughts
John Greenleaf Whittier

GONE hath the Spring, with all its flowers,
And gone the Summer’s pomp and show,
And Autumn, in his leafless bowers,
Is waiting for the Winter’s snow.

I said to Earth, so cold and gray,
“An emblem of myself thou art;”
“Not so,” the Earth did seem to say,
“For Spring shall warm my frozen heart.”

I soothe my wintry sleep with dreams
Of warmer sun and softer rain,
And wait to hear the sound of streams
And songs of merry birds again.

But thou, from whom the Spring hath gone,
For whom the flowers no longer blow,
Who standest blighted and forlorn,
Like Autumn waiting for the snow;

No hope is thine of sunnier hours,
Thy Winter shall no more depart;
No Spring revive thy wasted flowers,
Nor Summer warm thy frozen heart.

Ann Neilson

Source: Ann Neilson

For a little more information about who I am, simply click on the link above.

May as well get this out there sometime.

In order to broaden my online presence, I have created both Twitter and Tumblr accounts. Feel free to keep up with me and my shenanigans by heading on over to either page—or don’t, I truly don’t mind either way. 

I’m Not Dead

It has been well over a year since my last post, a Birthday article for the beloved Charles Fenno Hoffman. Since then, I have continued my Poeana studies, but regret to say I have not had the time to properly sit down and dedicate more time to writing pieces for this blog. I will try to remedy this soon and hope to present more articles regarding literary figures and tales from Poe’s era (just as a heads up for where the content of my blog is going).

I’m wishing you all the best and will (hopefully) see you all again soon.

-Ann

The Death of a Caroline Griswold

Rufus Griswold, that jerk I mentioned a few posts back, is beginning to grow on me, which if you know me well is completely bizarre. I used to completely detest the man. Any who. Through my dear friend (whose Twitter you can find here) I was given notice of a letter that Grizzle wrote to another gentleman after his wife, Caroline, had passed away, which discusses her death. It is absolutely heartbreaking and I felt deeply compelled to share. Never have I been so moved to tears by a letter–never have I been moved by any letter, really. Anyway, here you go, I’ve posted a link to it below.

The saddest thing you will ever read. 

Mark Rothko-An Arising Obsession

I am in love with his style. Below are five of my favorite pieces of his. In a nutshell, this Latvian-born artist was a genius amidst the (what we consider now) contemporary art scene.

Image
Blue, Green, and Brown, 1951
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Green Over Blue, 1956
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Underground Fantasy
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Untitiled, 1940
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Untitled Painting in Red and Black, 1955

THE BeZINE

Be inspired...Be creative...Be peace...Be

Brian Geiger

Student, Reader, Founder of the Vita Brevis Literary Magazine

My French Quest

Adventures in French Culture and Language Acquisition

Vita Brevis

The New Poetry Magazine

Oaken Reed

Wander with me awhile. Ponder with me awhile.