Royals & Tiara's

Tiara's have been worn by Royal ladies for generations. Here is a look at many of them, some of which were orignally worn by the Russian Royal families and Nobility before the Revolution.

1: Princess Margaret

1: The first Tiara is known as the Poltimore Tiara which the English Royal family bought for Princess Margaret. After her death the children of Princess Margaret and Lord Snowdon sold this spectacular Tiara.

2: The Second Tiara belongs to the present Queen and was originally bought by Queen Mary from the Russian Royal family. It is known as the Vladimir Tiara.

3: The Third Tiara is worn by Queen Paola of Belgium.

4: The fourth Tiara is worn bythe newly married Princess Mary of Denmark. The magnificent suite was once owned by Queen Ingrid of Denmark.

5: the fifth Tiara is worn by Queen Rania of Jordan.

6: The sixth Tiara is worn by the late Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother. It was made up of diamonds from Africa. Which were given to the Royal family as a gift.

Miranda

The storm hath blown thee a lover, sweet,

And laid him kneeling at thy feet.

But, -- guerdon rich for favor rare!

The wind hath all thy holy hair

To kiss and to sing through and to flare

Like torch-flames in the passionate air,

About thee, O Miranda.

Eyes in a blaze, eyes in a daze,

Bold with love, cold with amaze,

Chaste-thrilling eyes, fast-filling eyes

With daintiest tears of love's surprise,

Ye draw my soul unto your blue

As warm skies draw the exhaling dew,

Divine eyes of Miranda.

And if I were yon stolid stone,

Thy tender arm doth lean upon,

Thy touch would turn me to a heart,

And I would palpitate and start,

-- Content, when thou wert gone, to be

A dumb rock by the lonesome sea

Forever, O Miranda.

The Invitation

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for

and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool

for love

for your dream

for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon...

I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow

if you have been opened by life’s betrayals

or have become shrivelled and closed

from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain

mine or your own

without moving to hide it

or fade it

or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy

mine or your own

if you can dance with wildness

and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes

without cautioning us

to be careful

to be realistic

to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me

is true.

I want to know if you can

disappoint another

to be true to yourself.

If you can bear the accusation of betrayal

and not betray your own soul.

If you can be faithless

and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty

even when it is not pretty

every day.

And if you can source your own life

from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure

yours and mine

and still stand at the edge of the lake

and shout to the silver of the full moon,

“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me

to know where you live or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up

after the night of grief and despair

weary and bruised to the bone

and do what needs to be done

to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know

or how you came to be here.

I want to know if you will stand

in the centre of the fire

with me

and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom

you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you

from the inside

when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone

with yourself

and if you truly like the company you keep

in the empty moments.

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow--

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand--

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep--while I weep!

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

by Edgar Allan Poe

We

The Holy Spirit will guide us and the powers of hell will not prevail against us. In this promise of Jesus, the Church, as a living community of believers, discovers its bearings and its hope as it marches through the ages. The mysterious movements of the Spirit make the Church holy; the faltering strivings of its members make the Church human. Together the Church is whole. The Body of Christ functions in ways too numerous to treat fairly in this article. We, however, are capable of rallying to its mission to proclaim the good news for the salvation of souls, to recognize its power to sanctify and to heal all who seek its graces, to support its efforts to serve those in need, and to accept its invitation to intimacy with Christ.

The liturgical seasons with its feasts and solemnities highlight the glories, the struggles, the pathways, and the pitfalls characterizing the journey of the faithful. Being a member of the Body of Christ is not for the weak and the variable. Ironically, it is material such as this that the Lord chooses and fills with the courage and strength of the Spirit. From this labor the great personages of the Church have arisen. These men and women have impressed on the pages of human history the mark of Christ still active. And from their efforts, an untold multitude of faithful have followed them giving to the world Christ's presence.

Everyone wants to feel a sense of accomplishment in life, an awareness of having contributed to some higher purpose. The world's models of success and achievement have their rightful place, but not the place. Someday, all of the laurels of victory will fade. It is then that, in all humility, we would like to be assured that we have done well in the eyes of God. We hope that we have given to life something that has mattered, that has eternal significance in the unfolding of God's plan. In our own small way, we would wish our life to be judged to have moved the Body of Christ along its destined path.

The double-edged swords of freedom and power are wielded by all throughout their lives. The ends for which these gifts are used either aid in realizing God's plan or result in frustrating it. The fruits of God's love are available to all. In total freedom of will, one must choose to possess it or to reject it. How risky and yet how wise is that divine strategy. One must own one's faith and take the responsibility for making that faith visible or to discard it and accept the consequences of a Godless existence. Love is the product of a freely disposed heart and mind. God bears the risk of not being given the love of His creation and His creation bears the effect of refusing that love.

Christ and the Church: If he were to apply for a divorce on the grounds of cruelty, adultery, and desertion, he probably would get one.

- Samuel Butler

In spite of the traitorous acts of some, the Church produces abundantly those who are truly heroic, sacrificial, and good. Holiness is a crown dearly won. People of a secular mind, lacking faith, are quickest to pick up stones to fling at the faithful who have stumbled in their moral lives. How odd that those who apply few or no moral norms to themselves demand perfection of others. In my opinion, they simply are attempting to validate the dead creeds of their lives by castigating those who are seeking the truths of a living faith. Warts and all, give me the devout believer every time.

The panoply of virtues and vices lies before us. These moral options in life are like colors from which we choose in creating our self-portrait. The Church is a vital community committed to choosing wisely. Yet, as members of that community, we often choose foolishly. Thus, the image of the Church as a great hospital to which the casualties of life may come to have their wounds bound and find healing is most apt. Credit must be given to those who have chosen correctly. For those, the image of the Church as a juggernaut smashing through all obstacles, sailing toward a holy port would suffice. Metaphors, notwithstanding, we thank God for the Church's presence - our presence - as a beacon in a world so often devoid of light.

We live in every land, we speak every language, we encompass all races, and we worship the One - as one people. Let us then cling tightly to the hand of the Holy Spirit and pray for the love and wisdom, the help and hope, the healing and assurance that only the living God can bestow on the living force that are His people, His Church. We!

By Rev. Raymond Petrucci

Vincent and Vincent

This is so beautiful, a marriage of art and music. The paintings of Vincent Van Gough set to the song Vincent ( Starry Starry Night), as sung by Josh Groban.

I know why the caged bird sings

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

Maya Angelou