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Hazel bloom

Chapter 23: “Destiny.”
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About This Book

A compact collection of lyrical poems and short narratives that meditate on motherhood, faith, and the consolations found in nature. Many pieces recall childhood and domestic scenes, confront suffering and loss, and draw on Christian imagery to offer comfort and moral reflection. The verse moves between contemplative monologue, descriptive nature writing, and occasional narrative sketches, balancing personal feeling with devotional and ethical concerns. Throughout, simple pleasures—flowers, seasons, quiet homelife—are set against questions of destiny, grief, and spiritual hope.

“Destiny.”

She freighted a thistle-down once with a wish,
And gave to the breeze with her breath;
The Fates were to hold its invisible leash
And, if to be granted ere death,
Bring back, at her will, to her out-reaching hand
This wealth-laden embassy sent.
Unheeding her will and its pleading command,
Up, up toward the zenith it went,
Till will, it would seem, at the last had controlled,
When, earthward it came, like a fairy rigged sail—
Came straight toward the hand that was eager to hold
The zephyr-tossed feather, whose course should unveil
What Destiny held, in the Future concealed—
Life’s weightiest questions decide.
Almost within grasp and it wavered and reeled,
Then, mounting again the etherial tide,
It floated—was lost in the depths of the blue.
That thistle down, swayed by a pulse of the air,
Had wrecked her heart’s hopes on the rocks of despair,
As billows of ocean rich argosies strew.
Now listless and faithless she sits on the shore
Where Time’s restless surge casts its wrack at her feet;
She sees not the sunshine—hears only the roar
Of dark, sullen waves as they ceaselessly beat.
In Fate-ridden weakness she shrinks from all strife—
Lets Destiny’s elves to her fancy repeat
The early “decrees” that have shadowed her life—
No effort essays that might wreak a defeat—
Just waits for the stroke of pale Atropos’ knife.
* * * * *
A faith in the hidden controllings of Fate,
Enchains, with its might, even Reason and Will:
In wreakless inaction her devotees wait
For the slow-turning grind of her mill—Let
circumstance bind them with torturing gyves,
Pass doors that would open to Industry’s keys
And when, with his braided pangs, Poverty drives,
Receive all his lashings as “Fortune’s decrees.”
E’en tho’ Opportunity’s latch-string is out,
They, shelterless, wait for events to compel,
And deem themselves goaded by Destiny’s knout
While held in the toils of her mystical spell.
Credulity, Sloth and their following throngs
Forever are weaving entangling snares—
’Tis not till a victim is bound with their thongs,
To thwart his endeavor that Destiny dares.
Bring Will to the front—strike Destiny down,
And throttle the Fate that would hinder success—
You’ll find that dame Fortune will put off her frown
And yield, for past sufferings, an ampleredress.