OFF-DUTY MOTIVATIONAL READING: 40 Selected Poems (Walls below) |
…
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.
…
…
A Friend’s Greeting
By Edgar Guest
I’d like to be the sort of
friend
that you have
been to me;
I’d like to be the help
that you’ve been
always glad to
be;
I’d like to mean as much
to you
each minute of
the day
As you have meant, old friend
of mine,
to me along the
way.
I’d like to do the big
things
and the splendid
things for you,
To brush the gray out of
your skies
and leave them
only blue;
I’d like to say the kindly
things
that I so oft
have heard,
And feel that I could
rouse your soul
the way that mine
you’ve stirred.
I’d like to give back the
joy
that you have
given me,
Yet that were wishing you
a need
I hope will never be;
I’d like to make you feel
as rich as I, who
travel on
Undaunted in the darkest
hours
with you to lean
upon.
I’m wishing at this
Christmas time
that I could but
repay
A portion of the gladness
that you’ve
strewn along the way;
And could I have one wish
this year,
this only would
it be:
I’d like to be the sort of
friend
that you have
been to me.
Daffodils
By William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a
cloud
That floats on high o’er
vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a
crowd,
A host, of golden
daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath
the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in
the breeze.
Continuous as the stars
that shine
And twinkle on the Milky
Way,
They stretched in
never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a
glance,
Tossing
their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them
danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling
waves in glee:
A poet could not but be
gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed – and gazed – but
little thought
What wealth the show to me
had brought:
For oft, when on my couch
I lie
In vacant or in pensive
mood,
They flash upon that
inward eye
Which
is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with
pleasure fills,
And
dances with the daffodils.
When the Frost is on the Punkin
By James Whitcomb Riley
When the frost is on the punkin
and
the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble
of
the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys,
and
the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer
as
he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then’s the times a feller
is
a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him
from a
night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house,
bareheaded,
and
goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin
and
the fodder’s in the shock.
They’s
something kindo’ harty-like
about
the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s
over
and
the coolin’ fall is here –
Of course we miss the
flowers,
and
the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds
and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’;
and
the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny
morning
of
the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’
that no painter
has
the colorin’ to mock –
When the frost is on the punkin
and
the fodder’s in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel
of
the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves,
as
golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries –
kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’
sermuns to us
of
the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack
in the medder,
and
the reaper in the shed;
The hosses
in theyr stalls below –
the
clover over-head!
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’
like
the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin
and
the fodder’s in the shock!
Then your apples all is gethered,
and
the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor
in
red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ ‘s
over, and
your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and
apple-butter, and
theyr souse and saussage, too!
I don’t know how to tell
it –
but ef sich a thing could be
As the angels wantin’ boardin’,
and
they’d call around on me –
I’d want to ‘commodate ‘em –
all
the whole-indurin’ flock –
When the frost is on the punkin
and
the fodder’s in the shock!
Lucy
By William Wordsworth
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of
Dove,
A maid whom there were
none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only
one
Is
shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few
could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave,
and, Oh,
The
difference to me!
Stopping By Woods
on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I
think I know.
His house is in the
village though;
He will not see me
stopping here
To watch his woods fill up
with snow.
My little horse must think
it queer
To stop without a
farmhouse near
Between the woods and
frozen lake
The
darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells
a shake
To
ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the
sweep
Of
easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark
and deep.
But I have promises to
keep,
And miles to go before I
sleep,
And
miles to go before I sleep.
Warrior’s Dilemma
Adapted by Len Smith
from
Richard Hovey’s The Sea Gypsy
I am fevered with the
Bible,
I am fretful with the War,
For the hunger-thirst is
on me
And my soul is with the
Lord.
There’s a chariot in the
whirlwind
With its unicorns
breathing fire,
And my heart has gone
aboard it
For the Kingdom I desire.
But…I must fight again
tomorrow:
In this world I must
pause,
To help my fellow servants
In
the glory of His cause.
The Sea Gypsy
By Richard Hovey
I am fevered with the
sunset,
I am fretful with the bay,
For the wander-thirst is
on me
And my soul is in Cathay.
There’s a schooner in the
offing,
With her topsails shot
with fire,
And my heart has gone
aboard her
For
the Islands of Desire.
I must forth again
to-morrow!
With the sunset I must be
Hull down on the trail of
rapture
In
the wonder of the sea.
Along the Road
By Robert Browning
Hamilton
I walked a mile with
Pleasure;
She chattered all the way,
But left me none the wiser
For all she had to say.
I walked a mile with
Sorrow
And ne’er a word said she;
But oh, the things I
learned from her
When Sorrow walked with
me!
The Lamplighter
By Robert Louis Stevenson
My tea is nearly ready
and
the sun has left the sky.
It’s time to take the
window
to
see Leerie going by;
For every night at teatime
and
before you take your seat,
With lantern and with
ladder
he
comes posting up the street.
Now Tom would be a driver
and
Maria go to sea,
And my papa’s a banker
and
as rich as he can be;
But I, when I am stronger
and
can choose what I’m to do,
O Leerie,
I’ll go round at night
and
light the lamps with you!
For we are very lucky,
with a
lamp before the door,
And Leerie
stops to light it
as
he lights so many more;
And oh! before
you hurry by
with
ladder and with light;
O Leerie,
see a little child
and
nod to him tonight!
Don’t Quit
By anonymous
When things go wrong,
as
they sometimes will,
When the road you’re
trudging
seems
all uphill,
When the funds are low
and
the debts are high,
And you want to smile,
but
you have to sigh,
When care is pressing
you
down a bit
Rest if you must,
but
don’t you quit.
Life is queer
with
its twists and its turns,
As everyone of us
sometimes
learns,
And many a failure
turns
about
When they might have won,
had
they stuck it out.
Don’t give up
though
the pace seems slow,
You may succeed
with
another blow.
Often the goal
is
nearer than
It seems to a faint
and
faltering man,
Often the struggler
has
given up
When he might have
captured
the
victor’s cup;
And he learned too late
when
the night came down,
How close he was
to
the golden crown.
Success is failure
turned
inside out
The silver tint
of the
clouds of doubt
And you never can tell
how
close you are,
It may be near
when
it seems so far;
So stick to the fight
when
you’re hardest hit,
It’s when things seem
worst
that
you must not quit!
The Cross was His Own
By unknown
They borrowed a bed
to lay
His head
When Christ the Lord came
down;
They borrowed the ass
in
the mountain pass
For Him to ride to town;
But the crown that He wore
and
the cross that He bore
Were His own – the cross
was His own!
He borrowed the bread
when
the crowd He fed
On the grassy mountain
side,
He borrowed the dish of
broken fish
With which He satisfied.
But the crown that He wore
and
the cross that He bore
Were His own – the cross
was His own!
He borrowed the ship
in
which to sit
To teach the multitudes;
He borrowed a nest in
which to rest –
He had never a home so
rude;
But the crown that He wore
and
the cross that He bore
Were His own – the cross
was His own!
He borrowed a room
on
His way to the tomb
The passover lamb to eat:
They borrowed a cave – for
Him a grave,
They borrowed a winding
sheet.
But the crown that he wore
and
the cross that He bore
Were his own – the cross
was His own.
Sea Fever
By John Masefield
I must go down to the seas
again,
to
the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall
ship
and a
star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick
and
the wind’s song
and
the white sails shaking,
And a grey mist on the
sea’s face,
and a
grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas
again,
for
the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear
call
that
may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy
day
with
the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray
and
the blown spume,
and
the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas
again,
to
the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the
whale’s way
where
the wind’s
like a
whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry
yarn
from a
laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a
sweet dream
when
the long trick’s over.
Trees
By Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never
see
A
poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth
is prest
Against the sweet earth’s
flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God
all day,
And lifts her leafy arms
to pray;
A tree that may in summer
wear
A nest of robins in her
hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has
lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools
like me,
But only God can make a
tree.
To Lucasta, On Going to the Wars
By Richard Lovelace
Tell me not, Sweet, I am
unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breasts, and
quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I
chase,
The first foe in the
field;
And with a stronger faith
embrace
A
sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is
such,
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved
I not honour more.
Somebody’s mother
By Mary Dow Brine
The woman was old
and
ragged and grey
And bent with the chill
of
the Winter’s day.
The street was wet with a
recent snow
And the woman’s feet
were
aged and slow.
She stood at the crossing
and
waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid
the throng
Of human beings who passed
her by
Nor heeded the glance
of
her anxious eyes.
Down the street, with
laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of
‘school let out,’
Came the boys like a flock
of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled
white and deep.
Past the woman so old and
grey
Hastened
the children on their way.
Nor offered a helping hand
to her –
So meek, so timid, afraid
to stir
Lest the carriage wheels
or
the horses’ feet
Should crowd her down
in
the slippery street.
At last came one of the
merry troop,
The gayest lad of all the group;
He paused beside her and
whispered low,
“I’ll help you cross, if
you wish to go.”
Her aged hand on his
strong young arm
She placed, and so,
without hurt or harm,
He guided the trembling
feet along,
Proud that his own were
firm and strong.
Then back again to his
friends he went,
His
young heart happy and well content.
“She’s somebody’s mother,
boys,
you know,
For all she’s aged and
poor and slow,
And I hope some fellow
will lend a hand
To help my mother, you
understand,
If ever she’s poor and old
and grey,
And her
own dear boy is far away.”
‘Somebody’s mother’
bowed
low her head
In her home that night,
and
the prayer she said
Was “God be kind to the
noble boy,
Who is somebody’s son,
and
pride and joy!”
High Flight
By John Gillespie Magee, Jr
Oh, I have slipped
the
surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies
on
laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed,
and
joined the tumbling mirth
Of
sun-split clouds...
and
done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of...
wheeled
and soared and swung
High
in the sunlit silence.
Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting
wind
along, and flung
My eager craft
through
footless halls of air.
Up, up the long,
delirious,
burning blue
I’ve topped the windswept
heights
with
easy grace
Where never lark,
or
even eagle flew.
And, while with silent,
lifting
mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed
sanctity
of space
Put out my hand,
and
touched the face of God.
Dust of Snow
By Robert Frost
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
Be Strong
By Maltbie
Davenport Babcock
Be strong!
We are not here to play,
to
dream, to drift;
We have hard work to do,
and
loads to lift;
Shun not the struggle –
face
it; ‘tis God’s gift.
Be strong!
Say not, “The days are
evil.
Who’s
to blame?”
And fold the hands and
acquiesce –
oh
shame!
Stand up, speak out,
and
bravely, in God’s name.
Be strong!
It matters not
how
deep entrenched the wrong,
How hard the battle goes,
the
day how long;
Faint not – fight on!
To-morrow
comes the song.
Tell Him So
By unknown
If you hear a kind word
spoken
Of some worthy soul you
know,
It may fill his heart with
sunshine
If
you only tell him so.
If a deed, however humble,
Helps you on your way to
go,
Seek the one whose hand has helped you,
Seek him out and tell him
so!
If your heart is touched
and tender
Toward a person, lost and
low,
It might help him to do
better
If you’d only tell him so!
Oh, my sisters, oh, my
brothers,
As o’er life’s rough path
you go,
If God’s love has saved
and kept you,
Do not fail to tell men
so.
The Secret of the Sea
By Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow
Ah! What pleasant visions
haunt me
As I gaze upon the sea!
All the old romantic
legends,
All my dreams,
come back to me.
In each sail that skims the horizon,
In each landward-blowing breeze,
I behold that stately galley,
Hear those mournful melodies;
Till my soul is full of longing
For the secret of the sea,
And the heart of the great ocean
Sends a thrilling pulse through me.
Who Shall Be Fairest?
By Charles MacKay
Who shall be fairest, who
shall be rarest?
Who shall be first in the
songs that we sing?
She who is kindest when
fortune is blindest,
Bearing through winter the
blooms of the spring.
Charm of our gladness,
friend of our sadness,
Angel of life when its pleasures take wing!
She shall be fairest, she shall be rarest,
She shall be first in the songs that we sing!
Who shall be nearest,
noblest, and dearest,
Named but with honour, and pride evermore?
He, the undaunted, whose banner is planted
On Glory’s high ramparts and battlements hoar.
Fearless of danger, to
falsehood a stranger,
Looking not back while
there’s duty before!
He shall be nearest, he
shall be dearest,
He shall be first in our
hearts evermore.
…
Click button to download these Poems (with bookmarks to individual poems) along with the Old Soldiers, Old Leaves essay, Quotations, Hymns (with bookmarks), Pilgrims' Progress, and Motivational Poster in convenient PDF format with bookmarks to each section for convenient navigation. |