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Precious Fruit

Adapted by Len Smith

from Martha Haskell Clark’s Red Geraniums

 

Life did not bring me silken gowns,

nor jewels for my hair.

Nor fame and friends

to make my days so fair.

But I can see, in my daily life,

the word of God taking root,

And turning me from a carnal tree,

into one that’s bearing fruit.

 

The brambled trials of every day,

the petty tempting things,

May bother me all along the way,

but still my heart has wings,

Because I can see, in my daily life,

the word of God taking root,

And turning me from a carnal tree,

into one that’s bearing fruit.

 

And if my druthers ne’er come true,

for earthly fellowship and all the rest,

And I find myself alone

my journey through,

I’ll thankfully rejoice that

God has blessed,

Because I can see, in my daily life,

the word of God taking root,

And turning me from a carnal tree,

into one that’s bearing fruit.

 

Red Geraniums

By Martha Haskell Clark

 

Life did not bring me silken gowns,

Nor jewels for my hair,

Nor signs of gabled foreign towns

In distant countries fair,

But I can glimpse, beyond my pane,

a green and friendly hill,

And red geraniums aflame

upon my window sill.

 

The brambled cares of everyday,

The tiny humdrum things,

May bind my feet when they would stray,

But still my heart has wings

While red geraniums are bloomed

against my window glass,

And low above my green-sweet hill

the gypsy wind-clouds pass.

 

And if my dreamings ne’er come true,

The brightest and the best,

But leave me lone my journey through,

I’ll set my heart at rest,

And thank God for home-sweet things,

a green and friendly hill,

And red geraniums aflame

upon my window sill.

 

It Couldn’t Be Done

By Edgar Guest

 

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,

But he with a chuckle replied

That maybe it couldn’t, but he would be one

Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.

So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin

On his face.  If he worried he hid it.

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

 

Somebody scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;

At least no one ever has done it”;

But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,

And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.

With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,

Without any doubting or quiddit,

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

  That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

 

There are thousands to tell you

it cannot be done,

There are thousands

to prophesy failure;

There are thousands to point out

to you, one by one,

The dangers that wait to assail you.

But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,

Just take off your coat and go to it;

Just start to sing as you tackle the thing

That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

 

Touching Shoulders

By unknown

 

There’s a comforting thought

at the close of the day,

When I’m weary

and lonely and sad,

That sort of grips hold

of my crusty old heart

And bids it

be merry and glad.

It gets in my soul

and drives out the blues,

And finally

thrills through and through.

It is just a sweet memory

that chants the refrain:

“I’m glad I touched shoulders with you!”

 

Did you know you were brave,

did you know you were strong?

Did you know there was

one leaning hard?

Did you know

that I waited and listened and prayed,

And was cheered

by your simplest word?

Did you know that I longed

for that smile on your face,

For the sound of your

voice ringing true?

Did you know that I grew stronger

and better because

I had merely touched shoulders with you?

 

I am glad that I live,

that I battle and strive

For the place that I know

I must fill;

I am thankful for sorrows,

I’ll meet with a grin

What fortune may send,

good or ill.

I may not have wealth,

I may not be great,

But I know I shall always

be true,

For I have in my life

that courage you gave

When once I rubbed shoulders with you.

 

A Song from Sylvan

By Louise Imogen Guiney

 

The little cares that fretted me,

I lost them yesterday

Among the fields above the sea,

Among the winds at play;

Among the lowing herds,

The rustling of the trees,

Among the singing birds,

The humming of the bees.

 

The fears of what may come to pass,

I cast them all away,

Among the clover-scented grass,

Among the new-mown hay;

Among the husking of the corn,

Where the drowsy poppies nod,

Where ill thoughts die and good are born,

Out in the fields with God.

 

The Old Oaken Bucket

By Samuel Woodworth

 

How dear to this heart

are the scenes of my childhood,

When fond recollection

presents them to view!

The orchard, the meadow,

the deep-tangled wild-wood,

And every loved spot

which my infancy knew!

The wide-spreading pond,

and the mill that stood by it,

The bridge, and the rock

where the cataract fell,

The cot of my father,

the dairy-house nigh it,

And e’en the rude bucket

that hung in the well

The old oaken bucket,

the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket

which hung in the well.

 

That moss-covered vessel

I hailed as a treasure;

For often at noon,

when returned from the field,

I found it the source

of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest

that nature can yield.

How ardent I seized it,

with hands that were glowing,

And quick to the white-

pebbled bottom it fell;

Then soon, with the emblem

of truth overflowing,

And dripping with coolness,

it rose from the well;

The old oaken bucket,

the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket

arose from the well.

 

How sweet from the green

mossy brim to receive it,

As poised on the curb,

it inclined to my lips!

Not a full blushing goblet

could tempt me to leave it,

Though filled with the nectar

that Jupiter sips.

And now, far removed

from the loved habitation,

The tear of regret

will intrusively swell,

As fancy reverts

to my father’s plantation,

And sighs for the bucket

that hangs in the well;

The old oaken bucket,

the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket

that hangs in the well!

 

The Old Oaken Bucket

(As Censored by the Board of Health)

By unknown

 

With what anguish of mind

I remember my childhood,

Recalled in the light

of knowledge since gained:

The malarious farm,

the wet fungus-grown wildwood,

The chills then contracted

that since have remained;

The scum-covered duck pond,

the pig sty close by it,

The ditch where the sour-

smelling house drainage fell,

The damp, shaded dwelling,

the foul barnyard nigh it;

But worse than all else

was that terrible well,

And the old oaken bucket,

the mold-crusted bucket,

The moss-covered bucket

that hung in the well.

 

Just think of it! Moss

on the vessel that lifted

The water I drank

in the days called to mind;

Ere I knew what professors

and scientists gifted

In the waters of wells

by analysis find;

The rotting wood fiber,

the oxide of iron,

The algae, the frog

of unusual size,

The water as clear

as the verses of Byron,

Are things I remember

with tears in my eyes.

 

Oh, had I but realized

in time to avoid them,

The dangers that lurked

in that pestilent draft;

I’d have tested for organic germs

and destroyed them

With potassic permanganate

ere I had quaffed.

Or perchance I’d have boiled it,

and afterward strained it

Through filters of charcoal

        And gravel combined;

Or, after distilling,

condensed and regained it

In potable form

with its filth left behind.

 

How little I knew

of the enteric fever

Which lurked in the water

I ventured to drink,

But since I’ve become

a devoted believer

In the teachings of science,

I shudder to think.

And now, far removed

from the scenes I’m describing,

The story of warning

to others I tell,

As memory reverts

to my youthful imbibing

And I gag at the thought

of that horrible well,

And the old oaken bucket,

the fungus-grown bucket –

In fact, the slop-bucket

that hung in the well.

 

Old Ironsides

By Oliver Wendell Holmes

 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see

That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon’s roar; —

The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more.

 

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood,

Where knelt the vanquished foe,

When winds were hurrying o’er the flood,

And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor’s tread,

Or know the conquered knee; —

The harpies of the shore shall pluck

The eagle of the sea!

 

Oh, better that her shattered hulk

Should sink beneath the wave;

Her thunders shook the mighty deep,

And there should be her grave;

Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,

The lightning and the gale!

 

Do It Now

By Berton Braley

 

If with pleasure you are viewing

any work a man is doing,

If you like him or you love him,

tell him now;

Don’t withhold your approbation

till the parson makes oration

And he lies with snowy lilies

on his brow;

No matter how you shout it

he won’t really care about it;

He won’t know how many teardrops

you have shed;

If you think some praise is due him

now’s the time to slip it to him,

For he cannot read his tombstone

when he’s dead.

 

More than fame and more than money

is the comment kind and sunny

And the hearty, warm approval

of a friend.

For it gives to life a savor,

and it makes you stronger, braver,

And it gives you heart and spirit

to the end;

If he earns your praise-bestow it;

if you like him let him know it;

Let the words

of true encouragement be said;

Do not wait till life is over

and he’s underneath the clover;

For he cannot read his tombstone

when he’s dead.

 

There is a tide in the affairs of men

By William Shakespeare

 

There is a tide in the affairs of men

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now afloat;

And we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.

 

The Swordbearer’s Burden

Adapted by Len Smith

From Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken

 

Two roads diverged in religion one day,

As more attention to the Bible I paid.

The questions I asked made preachers mad,

And their fearful reactions made me sad.

 

The denominational road was very wide,

With many grand attractions along the side,

Which allowed the people along every mile

In spite of their ignorance still to smile.

 

The Biblical road was just a trace;

Nobody would choose it to run a race!

It was lonely and thorny and full of hardship,

But the Bible said it was the way of worship.

 

My burden is to tell you why

When two very different roads diverged

that I…

I took the one less traveled by.

And with nothing but praise ages hence,

I’ll thank God for that difference.

 

The Road Not Taken

By Robert Frost

 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

 

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

 

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

 

Leisure

By William Henry Davies

 

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

 

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars like skies at night.

 

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

 

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea

By Allan Cunningham

 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast;

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee.

 

O for a soft and gentle wind!

I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,

And white waves heaving high;

And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship tight and free –

The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

 

There’s tempest in yon hornèd moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;

And hark the music, mariners!

The wind is piping loud;

The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashing free –

While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

 

Our Own

By Margaret E. Sangster

 

If I had known, in the morning,

How wearily all the day

The words unkind would trouble my mind

That I said when you went away,

I had been more careful, darling,

Nor given you needless pain;

But we vex our own with look and tone

We might never take back again.

 

For though in the quiet evening

You may give me the kiss of peace,

Yet it well might be that never for me

The pain of the heart should cease;

How many go forth at morning

Who never come home at night,

And hearts have broken

for harsh words spoken

That sorrow can ne’er set right.

 

We have careful thought for the stranger,

And smiles for the sometime guest,

But oft for our own the bitter tone,

Though we love our own the best.

Ah, lip with the curve impatient,

Ah, brow with the shade of scorn,

‘Twere a cruel fate, were the night too late

To undue the work of morn!

 

I Remember, I Remember

By Thomas Hood

 

I remember, I remember

The house where I was born,

The little window where the sun

Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon

Nor brought too long a day;

But now, I often wish the night

Had borne my breath away.

 

I remember, I remember

The roses red and white,

The violets and the lily cups –

Those flowers made of light!

The lilacs where the robin built,

And where my brother set

The laburnum on his birthday –

The tree is living yet!

 

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then

That is so heavy now,

The summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!

 

I remember, I remember

The fir-trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance,

But now ‘tis little joy

To know I’m farther off from Heaven

Than when I was a boy.

 

David, My Fellow Warrior

Adapted by Len Smith

from George Sterling’s The Master Mariner

 

My comrade David left his armor behind,

And in the hot sun the giant he slew.

Here in conditioned air I find

Another novel I hope will do.

 

He killed the lions that threatened his herd

In the early morning dew.

I watch the beasts as I chomp a burger

At my nearby city zoo.

 

He expressed his faith in God in psalms,

And with instruments of music did sing.

But I was kicked out of a choir

For not being able to sing.

 

David wielded in his ample fist

The bloody sword of war,

But I am fretful that my writing wrist

My Memoirs might make sore.

 

I think my comrade now would gaze

At me with his warrior’s knowing eye,

And seeing my hands as soft as my days

He’d turn his eyes to heaven…and sigh.

 

Prayer of an Aging Warrior

Excerpted from Psalm 71

 

In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust:

For thou art my hope, O Lord God:

Thou art my trust from my youth.

Cast me not off in the time of old age;

Forsake me not when my strength faileth.

O God, thou hast taught me from my youth:

And hitherto have I declared thy wondrous

works. Now also when I am old and

gray headed, O God, Forsake me not;

until I have shewed thy strength unto

this generation, And thy power

to every one that is to come.

 

Evening Contemplation

By George Washington Doane

 

Softly now the light of day

Fades upon my sight away;

Free from care, from labor free,

Lord, I would commune with Thee.

 

Thou, whose all-pervading eye

Naught escapes, without, within!

Pardon each infirmity,

Open fault, and secret sin.

 

Soon for me the light of day

Shall for ever pass away;

Then, from sin and sorrow free,

Take me, Lord, to dwell with Thee.

 

Thou who, sinless, yet hast known

All of man’s infirmity!

Then, from Thine eternal throne,

Jesus, look with pitying eye.

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