in the winter night flew Elisha in the blizzard snow after that they said don't shoot elisha he might be there on the branches down below and when they when hunting in
the winter chill it gave the rancher a scare He said I raised him from a
baby he was so smart he drove me crazy  one day I went to my sons house he was a priest and we went to a monstary all the priest were in a hurry to see this smart raven one of the priest held him up to give a blessing  but he dropped him on the floor but he didn't say never more never more he flew up and on the wall there were pictures of the priest
and young elisha never ceased he found the picture of the priest that dropped him and pecked at the picture  and flew out the window on a branch lim I caught him and said elisha i'm sorry that happen to you and he loved beer so I gave he some brew one day there was a storm
and I had to get the cattle in were it was safe and warm elisha tried to catch up with the herd he was defoted and relentless bird but poor young elisha couldn't find his owner and poor elisha became a loner
the rancher cryied but he always had hope that elisha was alive and the next winter came there was no one to blame that that raven was gone and when his son was old enough to hunt he told his son the story and siad you were this black had I wore when elisha was around and he would sore you were that hat to remind ya so you don't shoot elisha

Poet and saint!  to thee alone are given
The two most sacred names of earth and heaven;
The hard and rarest union which can be,
Next that of Godhead with humanity.
Long did the Muses banished slaves abide,
And built vain pyramids to mortal pride;
Like Moses thou, though spells and charms withstand,
Hast brought them nobly home, back to their Holy Land.

Ah, wretched we, poets of earth! but thou
Wert, living, the same poet which thou ‘rt now
Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine,
And joy in an applause so great as thine.
Equal society with them to hold,
Thou need’d not make new songs, but say the old,
And they, kind spirits, shall all rejoice to see
How little less than they exalted man may be.
Still the old heathen gods in numbers swell,
The heav’nliest thing on earth still keeps up hell;
Nor have we yet quite purged the Christian land,
Still idols here, like calves at Bethel, stand,
And though Pan’s death long since all oracles broke,
Yet still in rhyme the fiend Apollo spoke;
Nay, with the worst of heathen dotage, we,
Vain men, the monster woman deify,
Find stars and tie our fates there in a face,
And paradise in them by whom we lost it, place.
What different faults corrupt our muses thus?
Wanton as girls, as old wives fabulous!

Thy spotless muse, like Mary, did contain
The boundless Godhead; she did well disdain
That her eternal verse employed should be
On a less subject than eternity,
And for a sacred mistress scorned to take
But her whom God himself scorned not his spouse to make.
It, in a kind, her miracle did do:
A fruitful mother was, and ****** too.

How well, blest swan, did fate contrive thy death,
And made thee render up thy tuneful breath
In thy great mistress’ arms, thou most divine
And richest off’ring of Loretto’s shrine!
Where like some holy sacrifice t’ expire,
A fever burns thee,  and love lights the fire.
Angels, they say, brought the famed chapel there,
And bore the sacred load in triumph through the air;
’Tis surer much they brought thee there, and they
And thou, their charge, went singing all the way.

Pardon, my mother church, if I consent
That angels led him when from thee he went,
For even in error sure no danger is
When joined with so much piety as his.
Ah, mighty God! (with shame I speak ‘t, and grief),
Ah, that our greatest faults were in belief!
And our weak reason were ev’n weaker yet,
Rather than thus, our wills too strong for it.
His faith perhaps in some nice tenents might
Be wrong; his life, I’m sure, was in the right.
And I myself a Catholic will be,
So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee.

Hail, bard triumphant! and some care bestow
On us, the poets militant below,
Opposed by our old en’my, adverse chance,
Attacked by envy and by ignorance,
Enchained by beauty, tortured by desires,
Exposed by tyrant love to savage beasts and fires.
Thou from low earth in nobler flames didst rise,
And like Elijah mount alive the skies.
Elisha-like (but with a wish much less,
More fit thy greatness and my littleness),
Lo, here I beg (I whom thou once didst prove
So humble to esteem, so good to love)
Not that thy spirit might on me doubled be,
I ask but half thy mighty spirit for me;
And when my muse soars with so strong a wing,
’Twill learn of things divine, and first of thee to sing.

She was in a panic; her husband was dead,
while the fear of dread had filled her head.

The local creditor wanted to enslave her sons;
she desired to keep her family from being undone.

She observed the seriousness of her situation
and sought the prophet for an inspired solution.

In their meeting, Elisha asked about her resources,
to determine a course of action, for him to endorse.

“With my spouse gone, my finances have been despoiled;
all that is left, is but a small container of oil.”

“Listen carefully my sister, and I’ll instruct you
with the needed wisdom, for your divine break-through.

Seek out your neighbors, for many, empty pots and jars;
be diligent in your search, with friends, near and far.

Once you have completed your first task of collection,
lock yourselves inside, with the jars in your possession.

Then take your original vial of olive oil and begin to pour,
filling each, empty vessel, behind the safety of your door.

For once you start, you will see the blessings of God flow,
according to your level of faith, His grace He will bestow.”

One at a time, she filled a cleaned vessel and set it aside;
when she was finished, her and her family were teary-eyed.

Upon further instruction, she sold the oil, paid her debts,
and was thankful, that their future needs were… completely met.
.
.
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Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
2 Kings 4:1-7

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.

All-Conquering Death! by thy resistless pow’r,
Hope’s tow’ring plumage falls to rise no more!
Of scenes terrestrial how the glories fly,
Forget their splendors, and submit to die!
Who ere escap’d thee, but the saint of old
Beyond the flood in sacred annals told,
And the great sage, whom fiery coursers drew
To heav’n’s bright portals from Elisha’s view;
Wond’ring he gaz’d at the refulgent car,
Then ******’d the mantle floating on the air.
From Death these only could exemption boast,
And without dying gain’d th’ immortal coast.
Not falling millions sate the tyrant’s mind,
Nor can the victor’s progress be confin’d.
But cease thy strife with Death, fond Nature, cease:
He leads the virtuous to the realms of peace;
His to conduct to the immortal plains,
Where heav’n’s Supreme in bliss and glory reigns.
  There sits, illustrious Sir, thy beauteous spouse;
A gem-blaz’d circle beaming on her brows.
Hail’d with acclaim among the heav’nly choirs,
Her soul new-kindling with seraphic fires,
To notes divine she tunes the vocal strings,
While heav’n’s high concave with the music rings.
Virtue’s rewards can mortal pencil paint?
No—all descriptive arts, and eloquence are faint;
Nor canst thou, Oliver, assent refuse
To heav’nly tidings from the Afric muse.
  As soon may change thy laws, eternal fate,
As the saint miss the glories I relate;
Or her Benevolence forgotten lie,
Which wip’d the trick’ling tear from Misry’s eye.
Whene’er the adverse winds were known to blow,
When loss to loss ensu’d, and woe to woe,
Calm and serene beneath her father’s hand
She sat resign’d to the divine command.
  No longer then, great Sir, her death deplore,
And let us hear the mournful sigh no more,
Restrain the sorrow streaming from thine eye,
Be all thy future moments crown’d with joy!
Nor let thy wishes be to earth confin’d,
But soaring high pursue th’ unbodied mind.
Forgive the muse, forgive th’ advent’rous lays,
That fain thy soul to heav’nly scenes would raise.

His master taken from his head,
Elisha saw him go;
And in desponding accents said,
"Ah, what must Israel do?"

But he forgot the Lord who lifts
The beggar to the throne;
Nor knew that all Elijah's gifts
Would soon be made his own.

What! when a Paul has run his course,
Or when Apollos dies,
Is Israel left without resource,
And have we no supplies?

Yes, while the dear Redeemer lives,
We have a boundless store,
And shall be fed with what He gives,
Who lives for evermore.