Gettysburg

“Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it.” - Mark Twain

I know I've posted parts of this before, but I believe it's the sort of thing that it is impossible to read and reflect upon too frequently. Happy Fourth - and 1st, 2nd, and 3rd - of July.
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Among the units at Gettysburg on July 1st, 2nd and 3rd, 1863 was the First Minnesota Volunteer Infantry. Minnesota governor Alexander Ramsey happened to be in Washington at the time South Carolina seceded from the Union, and was the first governor to offer troops to fight; therefore the First Minnesota was the first volunteer regiment of any state to be offered for the Union cause.

On July 2nd, during the battle at Gettysburg, the First was ordered to fill in a gap in the Union line until the area could be reinforced. Of 262 men who were ordered to attack, 215 ended the day killed, missing, or wounded. The following day, this same unit helped to repel Pickett’s Charge. The First Minnesota has the highest losses in any one battle (by total number of men) of the entire Civil War.

General Winfield Scott Hancock later said of the First,
“I had no alternative but to order the regiment in. We had no force on hand to meet the sudden emergency. Troops had been ordered up and were coming on the run, but I saw that in some way five minutes must be gained or we were lost. It was fortunate that I found there so grand a body of men as the First Minnesota. I knew they must lose heavily and it caused me pain to give the order for them to advance, but I would have done it (even) if I had known every man would be killed. It was a sacrifice that must be made. The superb gallantry of those men saved our line from being broken. No soldiers on any field, in this or any other country, ever displayed grander heroism.”

GETTYSBURG ADDRESS

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

The Last Full Measure

" We sleep safe in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm. " - George Orwell


Gettysburg Address - Abraham Lincoln

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

(More Lincoln Portrait stuff here: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4165357)

Opportunity Costs

I'm dying, here.

I haven't yet seen this evening's episode of The Office. I can't read any fanfic, can't go on any message boards, can't do anything.

Granted, the trade-off was a good one - I ended up over at K's with T and H for dinner, drinks, conversation, and a viewing of Gone Baby Gone, which I hadn't seen. Darn fine flick. Been a while since I read the book as well - the book is incredible, terribly complex and terribly hard to read. Lehane's books are just wrenching. No good really comes out in the end, for anyone. Dark. Oh, so dark. But good.

Upshot of all this is, I'm too tired and too wound from the movie to watch my tape of The Office. So to bed for me. Dangit.

Did finish applying for my own job this afternoon. So that's done.

'Kay... really need to go to bed now.

After I find those Lehane books on my shelf. Now where did they go...

More stupid work talk, etc.

Meetings all day today and the only thing I got out of it was sympathy. No solid word yet. Am pretty disgusted with the lack thereof, to tell the truth. Rather startling thing that came out at a staff meeting was that once they figure out what jobs are still left, they will be posted externally. WTF? This means we need to apply for our own jobs?!?!? We were told we'd be automatically given a position if one was available. Lovely. Just lovely. I am definitely starting to feel screwed over, and I can't say as I like it.

Been thinking more on how I can economize and what I need to live on. I hate this. I've been out of college how long now? How much hard work? How much job experience? I shouldn't have to think like this.

I'm not normally this cynical and depressing, I swear.

Today marks exactly ten years since the downfall of Lord Voldemort. That's just about the coolest thing in the universe. Yay for The Boy Who Lived.

Tonight went to a theatrical production, a company of six teen actors that wrote most of the play themselves in collaboration with a teaching artist. I was extremely impressed. For junior high kids, they were well spoken, funny, moved well, were self possessed, and just generally kicked some serious butt.

Friend of mine and I were chatting about this lovely economy and she said that the budget that she and her husband have for gas is higher than their student loan payments. Oh yeah, no, we're not in a recession.

HEY! ATTENTION ALL THOSE IN CHARGE OF THESE THINGS!


THIS IS NOT GOOD!

And how on earth do you think a federal gas tax vacation will help? That'll save what, 18.4 cents per gallon? Current average is $3.48 in my area. So now I'm paying what, $3.30 at best, assuming prices don't go up even more? Ooooo..... Dude, news flash here: Cub coupons will pick that up for you.

My car has a 16.5 gallon tank. I fill up about 3 times a month. Let's do a little math, shall we?

• 16.5 gallons x $3.48 per = $57.42 per fill up x 3 fill ups = $172.26 per month

(Jayzus. Shouldn't have done that math. The truth hurts. Yeowch.)

• 16.5 gallons x $3.30 per = $54.45 per fill up x 3 fill ups = $163.35 per month

That makes for a grand total saved of...
(drum roll, please)

• $8.91

Now, I'm simplifying the math a tad as I don't go down to empty before I fill, so I actually spend a little less on gas. And $8.91 is $8.91. But really. It's like the tax rebate. What am I going to spend it on? Bills, of course. I'm not stupid.

How is that going to stimulate the economy?

ETA: Nice article in the Minnpost about it.

Dammit.

http://www.startribune.com/lifestyle/16853741.html

Minnesota novelist Jon Hassler dies

By SARAH T. WILLIAMS, Star Tribune

March 20, 2008

Beloved author Jon Hassler, whose unconquerable will to write became as much admired as his novels steeped in small-town Minnesota, died early Thursday of Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, a Parkinson’s-like disease. He was 74.

Hassler, of Minneapolis, battled PSP for almost 15 years, a disease that progressively stole his ability to write, to speak and, finally, to walk. But, fueled by the sheer force of will and the love and support of his wife, Gretchen Kresl Hasssler, Hassler devised ways to keep at it.

A spirited problem-solver, Hassler wrote his most recent few novels by “typing.” His fingers, however, would fall randomly on the keyboard, and only he could read the resulting “gibberish.” He’d translate the typewritten pages to Gretchen, who would then retype them.

“Through all this, I loved him for his courage and his pluck,” Gretchen Hassler said. “He just kept going and going. He had a book to finish, and, by golly, he finished it, too.”

A new novel, “Jay O’Malley,” was finished in the weeks before his death.

Hassler was born March 30, 1933, to Leo Blaise (a grocer) and Ellen (a teacher), of Staples, Minn. His career path took him from schoolteacher in Melrose to a regent’s professor at St. John’s University in Collegeville.

Along the way, he published more than 15 works of fiction for adults and young adults, including “Staggerford” (1977), “The Love Hunter (1981), “Grand Opening” (1987) and “The New Woman” (2005).

He is survived by sons David Hassler (Joyce), of Alexandria, and Michael Hassler, of Brainerd; daughter Elizabeth Hassler Caughey (Lonnie), of Brainerd; stepdaughters Catherine Cich (Geoff), of Robbinsdale; Elizabeth Seymour (Chris), of Richfield; stepson Emil Kresl, of Austin, Texas. and five grandchildren.

Sarah T. Williams • 612-673-7951

© 2008 Star Tribune. All rights reserved.

Schoolsville - Billy Collins

Glancing over my shoulder at the past,
I realize the number of students I have taught
is enough to populate a small town.

I can see it nestled in a paper landscape,
chalk dust flurrying down in winter,
nights dark as a blackboard.

The population ages but never graduates.
On hot afternoons they sweat the final in the park
and when it's cold they shiver around stoves
reading disorganized essays out loud.
A bell rings on the hour and everybody zigzags
into the streets with their books.

I forgot all their last names first and their
first names last in alphabetical order.
But the boy who always had his hand up
is an alderman and owns the haberdashery.
The girl who signed her papers in lipstick
leans against the drugstore, smoking,
brushing her hair like a machine.

Their grades are sewn into their clothes
like references to Hawthorne.
The A's stroll along with other A's.
The D's honk whenever they pass another D.

All the creative-writing students recline
on the courthouse lawn and play the lute.
Wherever they go, they form a big circle.

Needless to say, I am the mayor.
I live in the white colonial at Maple and Main.
I rarely leave the house. The car deflates
in the driveway. Vines twirl around the porch swing.

Once in a while a student knocks on the door
with a term paper fifteen years late
or a question about Yeats or double-spacing.
And sometimes one will appear in a windowpane
to watch me lecturing the wallpaper,
quizzing the chandelier, reprimanding the air.

Included in the book, Sailing Around the Room: New and Selected Poems.

Included in the book, The Apple That Astonished Paris .

A Christmas Carol
Charles Dickens, 1843

I have endeavoured in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my readers out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it.

Their faithful Friend and Servant,
C. D.
December, 1843.


Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.

The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot -- say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance -- literally to astonish his son's weak mind.

.........

A Cup of Christmas Tea
Tom Hegg, 1981

The log was in the fireplace,
all spiced and set to burn.
At last the yearly Christmas race
was in the clubhouse turn.
The cards were in the mail,
all the gifts beneath the tree.
And 30 days reprieve till VISA
could catch up with me.

Though smug satisfaction
seemed the order of the day,
Something still was nagging me
and would not go away.

A week before, I got a letter
from my old great Aunt.
It read: Of course I'll understand
completely if you can't,
But if you find you have some time
how wonderful if we
Could have a little chat and share
a cup of Christmas tea.

She'd had a mild stroke that year
which crippled her left side.
Though house bound now,
my folks had said
it hadn't hurt her pride.
They said: She'd love to see you.
What a nice thing it would be
For you to go and maybe have
a cup of Christmas tea.

But boy! I didn't want to go.
Oh, what a bitter pill,
To see an old relation and
how far she'd gone downhill.
I remembered her as vigorous,
as funny and as bright.
I remembered Christmas Eves when
she regaled us half the night.

I didn't want to risk all that.
I didn't want the pain.
I didn't need to be depressed.
I didn't need the strain.

And what about my brother?
Why not him? She's his aunt, too!
I thought I had it justified,
but then before I knew,
The reasons not to go I so
painstakingly had built
Were cracking wide and crumbling
in an acid rain of guilt.

I put on boots and gloves and cap,
shame stinging every pore.
And armed with squeegee,
sand and map,
I went out my front door.
I drove in from the suburbs
to the older part of town.
The pastels of the newer homes
gave way to gray and brown.

I had that disembodied feeling
as the car pulled up and stopped
Beside the wooden house
that held the Christmas cup.
How I got up to her door
I really couldn't tell...
I watched my hand rise up and press
the button of the bell.

I waited, aided by my nervous
rocking to and fro.
And just as I was thinking
I should turn around and go,
I heard the rattle of the china
in the hutch against the wall.
The triple beat of two feet
and a crutch came down the hall.

The clicking of the door latch
and the sliding of the bolt,
And a little swollen struggle
popped it open with a jolt.
She stood there pale and tiny,
looking fragile as an egg.
I forced myself from staring
at the brace that held her leg.

And though her thick bifocals
seemed to crack and spread her eyes,
Their milky and refracted depths
lit up with young surprise.
Come in! Come in!
She laughed the words.
She took me by the hand.
And all my fears dissolved away
as if by her command.

We went inside and then before
I knew how to react
Before my eyes and ears and nose
was Christmas past, alive, intact!

The scent of candied oranges,
of cinnamon and pine,
The antique wooden soldiers
in their military line,
The porcelain Nativity
I'd always loved so much,
The Dresden and the crystal
I'd been told I mustn't touch.

My spirit fairly bolted
like a child out of class
And danced among the ornaments
of calico and glass.
Like magic I was six again,
deep in a Christmas spell.
Steeped in the million memories
That the boy inside knew well.

And here among old Christmas cards
so lovingly displayed,
A special place of honor
for the ones we kids had made.
And there, beside her rocking chair,
the center of it all,
My great Aunt stood and said how nice
it was I'd come to call.

I sat and rattled on about
the weather and the flu.
She listened very patiently
then smiled and said, "What's new?"
Thoughts and words began to flow.
I started making sense.
I lost the phony breeziness
I use when I get tense.

She was still passionately interested
in everything I did.
She was positive. Encouraging.
Like when I was a kid.
Simple generalities
still sent her into fits.
She demanded the specifics.
The particulars. The bits.

We talked about the limitations
that she'd had to face.
She spoke with utter candor
and with humor and good grace.
Then defying the reality
of crutch and straightened knee,
On wings of hospitality
she flew to brew the tea.

I sat alone with feelings that
I hadn't felt in years.
I looked around at Christmas
through a thick hot blur of tears.
And the candles and the holly
she'd arranged on every shelf,
The impossibly good cookies
she still somehow baked herself.

But these rich and tactile memories
became quite pale and thin,
When measured by the Christmas
my great Aunt kept deep within.
Her body halved and nearly spent,
but my great Aunt was whole.
I saw a Christmas miracle,
the triumph of a soul.

The triple beat of two feet and a
crutch came down the hall,
The rattle of the china
in the hutch against the wall.
She poured two cups. She smiled and then she handed one to me.
And then we settled back and had
a cup of Christmas tea.

A Visit From St. Nicholas
Clement Clarke Moore, 1822


Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

Not much to say; just figured I may as well say something as it's been a while.

Not so pumped about the TV writers' strike. Moonlighting had to deal with the last big one, back in '88. It's not a federal case or anything, and Lord knows there's plenty in this world that's more important, but it's nice to have an escape, once and a while. And Jim and Pam finally got together. Darn it!

Today traded places with one of my co-workers and did his job for the day. What fun. Things are totally different where he works. Everyone was very nice, helpful, welcoming, willing to try anything. Just different. Had a great time.

Am tired but just can't make myself go to bed. Hm.

Spent time cleaning today, some stuff that has been sitting around gathering dust for quite some time. Hung up piles of clean clothes, made the bed, etc.

Got a book the other day - Country Wisdom and Know-How: Everything You Need to Know to Live Off the Land. Stinkin' awesome. Covers everything from how to build a chicken coop to cooking with tofu to chair caning and seat weaving. You can't go wrong with that.

Went out with T yesterday to Penzey's, lunch, and a yarn shop that is unfortunately closing. We had a good time. Got some sock yarn. Think I'm going to try to crochet some socks. Have been crafty lately. This weekend did some canning, crocheting, soap making.

I can't "p" again. Stupid keyboard.

SONNET 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

I still haven't managed the strength for a full re-read.

The book comes with me around the house. I dip in and out of it, looking things up to check something, re-reading one scene at a time.

It still makes me cry.

My. My my oh my.

Got the book at 12:05, home and reading by about 12:20, surfaced for the final time at 5:30, staring around blearily at a world that somehow seemed completely changed.

I swallowed it in one big gulp and want to do a full re-read. Went through a couple of parts today. I laughed, I cried, I yelled "yes!" in triumph. There's still questions I'd like answered, but that's OK for now.

Now I just need to sit for a while and take it in.


----------------------------------------------------

Oh, the torment bred in the race,
the grinding scream of death
and the stroke that hits the vein,
the hemorrhage none can staunch, the grief,
the curse no man can bear.

But there is a cure in the house,
and not outside it, no,
not from others but from them,
their bloody strife. We sing to you,
dark gods beneath the earth.

Now hear, you blissful powers underground -
answer the call, send help.
Bless the children, give them triumph now.

Aeschylus, The Libation Bearers

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Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas; they live in one another still. For they must needs be present, that love and live in that which is omnipresent. In this divine glass, they see face to face; and their converse is free, as well as pure. This is the comfort of friends, that though they may be said to die, yet their friendship and society are, in the best sense, ever present, because immortal.

William Penn, More Fruits of Solitude

Three more hours.

I'm planning on leaving for the bookstore about 11:15 or so, I think. Can't wait.

I'm a little nervous and a little sad all wrapped up with the excitement. This will be the last time, ever. The close of a world-wide phenomenon that I have been privileged to be a part of. I remember what it was like before cell phones, before the internet, even before people had computers in homes and schools. But this is the one the grandkids would ask about: What was it like, when Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was finally released? An amazing thing. Millions of people all over the world doing one thing at the same time - reading the exact same book. How utterly amazing is that?

"The Shame of Minneapolis," a legendary 1903 article by journalist Lincoln Steffens:

This is a fascinating article both with insights into the history of Minneapolis and with "muckraking journalism" of the early 1900s. Steffens collected his writings into a book titled The Shame of the Cities, published in 1904. This link has the introduction to the book, also interesting for Steffens' views on political corruption. Read them both, I'm telling you. The intro especially.



"They were written with a purpose, they were, published serially with a purpose, and they are reprinted now together to further that same purpose, which was and is—to sound for the civic pride of an apparently shameless citizenship.

"There must be such a thing, we reasoned. All our big boasting could not be empty vanity, nor our pious pretensions hollow sham. American achievements in science, art, and business mean sound abilities at bottom, and our hypocrisy a race sense of fundamental ethics. Even in government we have given proofs of potential greatness, and our political failures are not complete; they are simply ridiculous. But they are ours. Not alone the triumphs and the statesmen, the defeats and the grafters also represent us, and just as truly. Why not see it so and say it?

"Because, I heard, the American people won’t “stand for” it. You may blame the politicians, or, indeed, any one class, but not all classes, not the people. Or you may put it on the ignorant foreign immigrant, or any one nationality, but not on all nationalities, not on the American people. But no one class is at fault, nor any one breed, nor any particular interest or group of interests. The misgovernment of the American people is misgovernment by the American people."

- Lincoln Steffens

-- written by Max Ehrmann in the 1920s --

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

http://www.fleurdelis.com/desiderata.htm

Sonnet XII: Why are we by all creatures waited on?
John Donne

Why are we by all creatures waited on?
Why do the prodigal elements supply
Life and food to me, being more pure than I,
Simpler and further from corruption?
Why brook'st thou, ignorant horse, subjection?
Why dost thou, bull and boar, so sillily
Dissemble weakness, and by one man's stroke die,
Whose whole kind you might swallow and feed upon?
Weaker I am, woe is me, and worse than you,
You have not sinned, nor need be timorous.
But wonder at a greater wonder, for to us
Created nature doth these things subdue,
But their Creator, whom sin, nor nature tied,
For us, His creatures, and His foes, hath died.

Somehow, this doesn't surprise me...

You scored as Hermione Granger, You are Hermione. You are academic, intelligent, and reasonable. On top of this, you are highly concerned with justice, scorn the small-minded prejudices of others and work hard to defend the under dog. Many times you may find that your heart and mind are constantly at war with each other. Hermione Granger 84% Remus Lupin 81% Albus Dumbledore 78% Severus Snape 75% Sirius Black 66% Harry Potter 66% Bellatrix Lestrange 56% Draco Malfoy 53% Oliver Wood 50% Luna Lovegood 50% Percy Weasley 47% Neville Longbottom 47% Lord Voldemort 41% Ron Weasley 22% Harry Potter Character Combatibility Test created with QuizFarm.com