Make Fun Of Life! - Serious Poems

Our Attitude

9/1/2025

View of a lily-pad-pond from between two green leafy trees, with a grassy meadow and green hills across the water, an overcast sky above, and the words, ‘Visit www.MakeFunOfLife.net.’

Our Attitude

It matters not if the day is bright,
     Or if darkness clouds the sky.
It matters not if it rains or shines,
     If hope is riding high.
It’s our attitude which rules the day,
     When trouble passes by.
The heart that sings when all is well,
     Which drives clouds from our sky.

By Everett Wentworth Hill

Everett Wentworth Hill was born on 10 January 1884 in Russell, Kansas, United States of America. He became a poet. His published works include “Light Across the Valley” (1951) and “He Who Seeks Gold” (1968). He was a president of Rotary International (1924 - 1925). Everett Wentworth Hill passed on at 94 years of age on 22 May 1978 in Kansas, United States of America and rests in Memorial Park, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, United States of America.

Gradatim

6/14/2025

Picture of clouds, and the words, Visit www.MakeFunOfLife.net.

Gradatim*

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;
     But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth, to the vaulted skies,
     And we mount to its summit round by round.

I count this thing to be grandly true:
     That a noble deed is a step toward God,
Lifting the soul from the common clod
     To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by the things that are under feet;
     By what we have mastered of good and gain;
By the pride deposed and the passion slain,
     And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,
     When the morning calls us to life and light,
But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night,
     Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,
     And we think that we mount the air on wings
Beyond the recall of sensual things,
     While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings for the angels, but feet for men!
     We may borrow the wings to find the way -
We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray;
     But our feet must rise, or we fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown
     From the weary earth to the sapphire walls;
But the dreams depart, and the vision falls,
     And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;
     But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth, to the vaulted skies,
     And we mount to its summit, round by round.

By J. G. Holland (Josiah Gilbert Holland (1819 - 1881)) (1872)

*Gradatim: step-by-step; gradually.

Josiah Gilbert Holland, also known by the pseudonym Timothy Titcomb, was born on 24 July 1819 in Belchertown, Massachusetts, United States of America. He became a doctor, but left the medical field to become a school superintendent, a novelist, an essayist, and a poet. He was a co-founder in 1870 with Roswell Smith, and editor, of “Scribner’s Monthly” magazine. He wrote the lyrics to the Methodist hymn “There’s a Song in the Air.” Josiah Gilbert Holland passed on at 62 years of age on 12 October 1881 in New York City, New York, United States of America.

The Luckless Man

1/31/2025

Picture of a forlorn-looking man sitting on a park bench, and the words, ‘Visit www.MakeFunOfLife.net.’

The Luckless Man

I heard a fellow say, this morn,
     “I’ve had hard luck since I was born.”
Yet he was fixed with hands and feet,
     And health so good ’twas hard to beat.
While he bemoaned his gloomy fate,
     And tried to keep his grouch on straight,
And while some maudlin tears he shed,
     An ailing cripple forged ahead,
Ambition glowing in his eyes,
     And gathered in a handsome prize.
A blind man, groping in the dark,
     In human annals made his mark.
A sick man, toiling with his pen,
     Produced a book that drew from men
So loud a burst of honest praise,
     As cheered the balance of his days.
A thousand brave, undaunted chaps,
     Borne down by grievous handicaps,
Were struggling up life’s rugged steep,
     Too full of hopeful plans to weep.
How pitiful the man who stands,
     With active lungs and idle hands,
Complaining of the luck he’s had,
     Since he was but a knee-high lad!

By Walt Mason (1862 - 1939)

Count Your Blessings

10/11/2024

Picture of a rural area as seen from above, with roads, houses, green lawns, hedgerows or lines of bushes separating properties, and the words, ‘Visit www.MakeFunOfLife.net.’

Count Your Blessings

Today I stood at my window and cursed the pouring rain,
     Today a desperate farmer prayed for his fields of grain.
My weekend plans are ruined, it almost makes me cry,
     While the farmer lifts his arms and blesses the clouded sky.

The alarm went off on Monday and I cursed my work routine,
     Next door, a laid-off mechanic feels the empty pockets of his jeans.
I can’t wait for my vacation, some time to take for me,
     He doesn’t know tonight how he’ll feed his family.

I cursed my leaky roof and the grass I need to mow,
     A homeless man downtown checks for change in the telephone.
I need a new car, mine is getting really old,
     He huddles in a doorway, seeking shelter from the cold.

With blessings I’m surrounded, the rain, a job, a home,
     Though my eyes are often blinded by the things I think I own.

By Author Unknown

Daybreak

10/10/2024

Picture of small green grassy area of ground in a dense dark woods of green leafy trees, with a few sunbeams from the rising Sun shining through onto the grass to light up the grass, and the words, ‘Visit www.MakeFunOfLife.net.’

Daybreak

Though dark and dreary be the night
     And tired and weary be your plight;
Though thoughts be ever full of gloom
     And flowers never seem to bloom;
Though birds are restless on the wing
     And life’s a jestless, futile thing;
Remember often that the sun
     Will rise to soften night’s long run,
For dew will glitter on the flowers
     And birds will twitter through the hours,
For life seems brighter when night’s gone
     And thoughts grow lighter with the dawn.

By Ruth Cronin

The Transformation

9/9/2024

Picture of a happy smiling man, and the words, ‘Visit www.MakeFunOfLife.net.’

The Transformation

When the clouds obscure the sky,
     And the world seems all awry;
And the rain comes pouring down,
     And there’s trouble all around;
When someone speaks a word unkind,
     And worries seem to fill the mind;
When my thoughts are very blue
     Because there’s so much to do;
I place a smile upon my face
     And note the change that’s taking place.

The clouds just seem to fade away,
     The world and all around seems gay;
The rains have washed the face of earth,
     Revealing much that is of worth;
And other faces seem to shine
     Into the smiling face of mine;
The task that seemed so hard to do
     Was quickly done, and better, too;
The world seemed happier to be
     Because there was a smile on me.

By G. Luther Weibel

George Luther Weibel was born on 16 February 1878 in Churchtown, Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, United States of America. He was married to Margaret Josephine Pachnicke Weibel in 1909, and together the couple had three children. He became a Christian pastor in the Lutheran Church and a poet. George Luther Weibel passed on at 77 years of age on 28 November 1955 in Santa Ana, Orange County, California, United States of America.

Facing The Future

9/1/2024

Picture of a blue sky and fluffy white clouds seen through trunks of green leafy trees, which in turn are seen through tall green leafy grass plants with seeds, and the words, ‘Visit www.MakeFunOfLife.net.’

Facing The Future

Is the road very dreary?
Patience yet.
Rest will be sweeter if thou art a-weary,
And after night cometh the morning cheery;
Then bide a wee and dinna fret.

The clouds have silver lining,
Don’t forget.
And though he’s hidden, still the sun is shining;
Courage! instead of tears and vain repining,
Just bide a wee and dinna fret.

With toil and cares unending
Art beset?
Bethink thee how the storms, from heaven descending,
Snap the stiff oak, but spare the willow bending,
And bide a wee and dinna fret.

Grief sharper sting doth borrow
From regret;
But yesterday is gone, and shall its sorrow
Unfit us for the present and the morrow?
Nay; bide a wee and dinna fret.

An over-anxious brooding
Doth beget
A host of fears and fantasies deluding;
Then, brother, lest these torments be intruding,
Just bide a wee and dinna fret.

By Anna Shipton

Anna Shipton was born as Anna Savage in January 1815 in England. She became a Christian writer of essays, poems, hymns, leaflets, and books. Anna Shipton passed on at 86 years of age on 5 November 1901 in St. Leonard’s on the Sea, England.

Mary Elizabeth Jefferson

5/10/2022

Picture of a woman reading a book that she is holding up in front of her face.

Mary Elizabeth Jefferson

Mary Elizabeth Jefferson
     Went to the school-house on the hill
In a little town called Talcotville,
     And her face was thin, and her shoes were worn,
And her clothes were faded and patched and torn,
     And the children laughed at her with scorn -
And Mary Elizabeth always heard,
     But never answered a single word.

Mary Elizabeth Jefferson
     Hadn’t an extra share of looks,
But she knew a lot when it came to books.
     And she used to dream of the things she read
When she lay at night in her wooden bed,
     With an arm beneath a tousled head;
And her heart was sad, and her thoughts were old,
     But Mary Elizabeth never told.

Mary Elizabeth Jefferson
     Plodded on till the dreams came true,
And she did the things that she planned to do
     By the very force of her brain and will,
And those from the school-house on the hill
     Are talking about the wonder still,
And credit the town with what was done
     By Mary Elizabeth Jefferson.

Mary Elizabeth Jefferson
     Has plenty of fame and riches now,
But the hurt of life is there somehow
     For a child too thin, with shoes too worn;
With clothes that were faded and patched and torn;
     Lonely, and treated with bitter scorn -
A child so sad, with thoughts so old
     Who never answered and never told.

by Nan Terrell Reed: “Prose and Poems” (1919), pages 27 and 28

Nan Terrell Reed was born on 31 May 1886 in Connecticut, United States of America. She became a poet and a songwriter. She began writing poems in childhood, and later decided to make a business of poetry writing after becoming married to Russell A. Reed (1884 - 1969), making an effort to write a poem a day. Her poems were widely published in magazines and books, including in her book, “Prose and Poems” (1919). Nan Terrell Reed passed on at 82 years of age on 14 February 1969.

The Rainy Day

5/9/2022

Picture of a man standing outside in the pouring rain.

The Rainy Day

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering* wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering* past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

*moldering: slow decay or disintegration, especially due to neglect.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born on 27 February 1807 in Portland, Maine, United States of America. He became a poet and a writer, and a professor at Harvard University. His works include “Paul Revere’s Ride” (1860) and the epic “The Song of Hiawatha” (1855). He was one of five members of a group of 19th-century American poets from New England known as the Fireside Poets. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow passed on at 75 years of age on 24 March 1882 in Cambridge, Massachusetts, United States of America.

The Sin of Omission

5/4/2022

Picture of zinnia plants with green leaves and purple, lavender, red, yellow, and orange flowers.

The Sin of Omission

It isn’t the thing you do, Dear,
     It’s the thing you leave undone
That gives you a bit of a heartache
     At the setting of the sun.
The tender word forgotten;
     The letter you did not write;
The flowers you did not send, Dear,
     Are your haunting ghosts at night.

The stone you might have lifted
     Out of a brother’s way;
The bit of heartsome counsel
     You were hurried too much to say;
The loving touch of the hand, Dear,
     The gentle, winning tone
Which you had no time nor thought for
     With troubles enough of your own.

Those little acts of kindness
     So easily out of mind,
Those chances to be angels
     Which we poor mortals find,
They come in night and silence,
     Each sad, reproachful wraith,
When hope is faint and flagging
     And a chill has fallen on faith.

For life is all too short, Dear,
     And sorrow is all too great,
To suffer our slow compassion
     That tarries until too late;
And it isn’t the thing you do, Dear,
     It’s the thing you leave undone
Which gives you a bit of a heartache
     At the setting of the sun.

by Margaret E. Sangster: “On the Road Home” (1898)

Margaret Elizabeth Sangster was born on 22 February 1838 in New Rochelle, New York, United States of America. She was married to George Sangster in October 1858. She became a writer, a poet, and a magazine editor. Her autobiography is titled, “From My Youth Up: Personal Reminiscences” (1909). Margaret Elizabeth Sangster passed on at 74 years of age on 3 June 1912 in South Orange, New Jersey, United States of America.

The Road’ll Turn Someday

8/12/2021

Picture of a rock-strewn road across a grassy woodlands area, with clouds floating in the sky and a flock of birds flying overhead.

The Road’ll Turn Some Day

I know the road is rocky,
     And the hills are hard to climb;
I know the feet get bruised and sore,
     And it takes heaps o’ time.
I know the burden’s heavy -
     O, you needn’t tempt to say;
But just keep a-plodding onward -
     For the road’ll turn some day!

I know that homesick feeling,
     And the ache you bear alone;
I know your heart is breaking,
     By the bravely stifled moan.
I know the arm you leaned upon
     Has now no power to stay;
But just keep a-plodding onward -
     For the road’ll turn some day!

I know the structures you have hewn
     Of youth’s day-dreams lie low;
I know you see their ruins stare
     Everywhere you go.
I know the sunbeams round your path
     Long since have ceased to play;
But just keep a-plodding onward -
     For the road’ll turn some day!

by Author Unknown

Bridges

8/8/2021

Bridge over calm waters, surrounded by trees with green leaves and blue sky with fluffy white clouds.

Bridges

What stories could these bridges tell
     If they could only talk?
They’d tell us of the ones who rode
     And those who had to walk,
The rich, the poor . . . those in-between
     Who used their planks to cross,
The soldiers, farmers, businessmen
     In buggies, sleighs, by ‘hoss,’
Like sentinels these bridges stand
     In spite of flood and fire,
Their rugged, stalwart strength remains
     Our future to inspire.

by Author Unknown

A Contrast

8/1/2021

Picture of an old farmhouse near the sea.

A Contrast

Once, in an old and lonely
     Farm-house by the sea,
I went to rest with only
     Myself for company.

No star the darkness brightened;
     A-low the welkin bowed;
It blew, it rained, it lightened,
     It thundered long and loud.

The tempest drove the billows
     Upon the rocky shore,
And, nestled in my pillows,
     I heard them plunge and roar.

The windows creaked and rattled,
     The chimney puffed and moaned,
The stout old elms, that battled
     Out in the court-yard, groaned.

I dozed while yet I listened;
     And lo! the next I knew,
The golden sunshine glistened,
     And everything was new.

The cock was crowing clearly,
     Cluck-clucked the happy hen,
The robin caroled cheerly,
     And sweetly chirped the wren.

I rose with glad emotion
     And up the window threw;
Before me heaved the ocean
     Its sparkling waters blue.

The skies were soft and tender;
     And lovely to be seen.
Impearled with dewy splendor,
     The land lay fresh and green.

I breathed an air Elysian;
     I thrilled with pure delight;
And nothing but a vision
     Seemed that black yester-night.

by Thomas Durfee

Thomas Durfee was born on 6 February 1826 in Tiverton, Newport County, Rhode Island, United States of America. He became a poet and a chief justice of Rhode Island (1875 - 1891). His published works include “The Village Picnic and Other Poems” (1872). Thomas Durfee passed on at 75 years of age on 6 June 1901 in Providence, Providence County, Rhode Island, United States of America.

Judge Gently

1/12/2021

Judge Gently

Pray, don’t find fault with the man who limps
     or stumbles along the road,
unless you have worn the shoes he wears
     or struggled beneath his load.

There may be tacks in his shoes that hurt,
     though hidden away from view,
or the burden he bears, placed on your back
     might cause you to stumble too.

Don’t sneer at the man who’s down today
     unless you have felt the blow
that caused his fall or felt the shame
     that only the fallen know.

You may be strong, but still the blows
     that were his if dealt to you,
in the selfsame way, at the selfsame time,
     might cause you to stagger too.

Don’t be too harsh with the man who sins
     or pelt him with word or stone,
unless you are sure, yea, doubly sure,
     that you have no sins of your own -

For you know perhaps if the tempter’s voice
     should whisper as softly to you
as it did to him when he went astray,
     it might cause you to stumble too.

by Author Unknown

Image shown is the oil-on-canvas painting, “Down on His Luck” (1889) by artist Frederick McCubbin, depicting an Australian swagman, or itinerant worker, sitting by a campfire contemplating his life circumstances. According to an 1889 review, “The face tells of hardships, keen and blighting in their influence, but there is a nonchalant and slightly cynical expression, which proclaims the absence of all self-pity.” The artist’s model was Louis Abrahams, who was an unsuccessful gold prospector and a friend of the artist. The work is in the Art Gallery of Western Australia in Perth.

Today

5/21/2020

Today

Build a little fence of trust
     Around to-day;
Fill the space with loving deeds
     And therein stay.

Look not through the sheltering bars
     Upon to-morrow,
God will help thee bear what comes,
     Of joy or sorrow.

by Mary Frances Butts

Mary Frances Butts, also known by her married name Mary Rodker, was born on 13 December 1890 in Poole, Dorset, England. She became a novelist and a poet. Mary Frances Butts passed on at 46 years of age on 5 March 1937 in Penzance, Cornwall, England.

It Hasn’t Been Easy

1/31/2020

It Hasn’t Been Easy

We know it hasn’t been easy.
We know there are times when it’s tough,
We know that things aren’t always fair,
But that doesn’t mean it should be this rough.
The journey should be a lot smoother,
And life should play by the rules.
Time passes too quickly
In everything except when it heals our wounds.
Some days are better than others.
Some are a little bit worse.
Sometimes everything works out okay.
Sometimes it’s hard to get past the hurts
With all our hearts,
We wish we had more answers
We want to let you know how much we care.
We wish the path ahead were
Clearer to see, and we could walk beside
You all the way there
We want you to have a guardian angel;
Someone to watch over you.
We want you to listen closely to your heart,
For it will always speak the truth.
We want you to have faith in tomorrow.
It will guide your steps today
And we know that things haven’t been easy
But we know things will be okay.

by Author Unknown

Tomorrow

1/23/2020

Tomorrow

He was going to be all that a mortal should be
     Tomorrow.
No one should be kinder or braver than he
     Tomorrow.
A friend who was troubled and weary he knew,
Who’d be glad of a lift and who needed it, too;
On him he would call and see what he could do
     Tomorrow.

Each morning he stacked up the letters he’d write
     Tomorrow.
And thought of the folks he would fill with delight
     Tomorrow.
It was too bad, indeed, he was busy today,
And hadn’t a minute to stop on his way;
More time he would have to give others, he’d say
     Tomorrow.

The greatest of workers this man would have been
     Tomorrow.
The world would have known him, had he ever seen
     Tomorrow.
But the fact is he died and he faded from view,
And all that he left here when living was through
Was a mountain of things he intended to do
     Tomorrow.

by Edgar A. Guest: “Collected Works of Edgar Guest” (1953), page 72

Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest was born on 20 August 1881 in Birmingham, England. He immigrated with his family to the United States of America in 1891. From his first published work in the “Detroit Free Press” until his passing in 1959, he penned some 11,000 poems that were syndicated in 300 newspapers and collected into more than twenty books. Mr. Guest is reputed to have had a new poem published in a newspaper every day for more than thirty years. He became known as ‘The People’s Poet,’ writing poems that were of a sentimental and optimistic nature. Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest passed on at 77 years of age on 5 August 1959 in Detroit, Michigan, United States of America.

To Know All Is to Forgive All

1/22/2020

To Know All Is to Forgive All

If I knew you and you knew me -
     If both of us could clearly see,
And with an inner sight divine
     The meaning of your heart and mine -

I’m sure that we would differ less
     And clasp our hands in friendliness;
Our thoughts would pleasantly agree
     If I knew you, and you knew me.

If I knew you and you knew me,
     As each one knows his own self, we
Could look each other in the face
     And see therein a truer grace.

Life has so many hidden woes,
     So many thorns for every rose;
The “Why” of things our hearts would see.
     If I knew you and you knew me.

by Nixon Waterman: “Boy Wanted: A Book of Cheerful Counsel” (1 January 1919), page 78

Nixon Waterman was born on 12 November 1859 in Newark, Kendall County, Illinois, United States of America, as the son of Lyman Waterman and Elizabeth Waterman. He lived on a farm until he was 20 years of age, teaching school during the winter months, and began his newspaper career at 21 years of age in the mechanical department of a country weekly in Creston, Iowa. Mr. Waterman was married on 14 March 1883 to Nellie Haskins of Menasha, Wisconsin. Weary of being a press operator, he tried his hand at other branches of the business, and made rapid progress. He first won flattering recognition as a newspaper editorial writer in Omaha, Nebraska. He moved to Chicago in October 1889, where he supplied the editorial page of the Chicago “Herald” with witty and catchy rhymes printed under the caption, “Small Change,” which were copied in publications across America. When the proprietors of the “Herald” started the “Evening Post,” he was one of the coteries selected to create for that venture the conditions of popularity with the public. After seven months on the “Post,” he went back to the “Herald,” but a year later resigned to work for “Puck,” “Truth,” “Youth’s Companion” and other popular weekly newspapers and magazines. Nixon Waterman was a newspaper writer, a poet, a book author, and a Chautauqua lecturer. His first wife Nellie Waterman (maiden name Haskins) passed on sometime in 1940, and in November 1940, he married Grace Sanford Leavitt. Nixon Waterman passed on at 84 years of age on 1 September 1944 in Canton, Norfolk County, Massachusetts, United States of America.

Always Remember

1/21/2020

Always Remember

Always remember to forget
     The things that made you sad,
But never forget to remember
     The things that made you glad.

Always remember to forget
     The friends that proved untrue,
But never forget to remember
     Those that have stuck by you.

Always remember to forget
     The troubles that pass your way,
But never forget to remember
     The blessings that come each day.

by Author Unknown

Little Things in Life

5/11/2019

Little Things in Life

Too often we don’t realize
     what we have until it is gone;
Too often we wait too late to say
      “I’m sorry - I was wrong.”

Sometimes it seems we hurt the ones
     we hold dearest to our hearts;
And we allow foolish things
     to tear our lives apart.

Far too many times we let
     unimportant things into our minds;
And then it’s usually too late
     to see what made us blind.

So be sure that you let people know
   how much they mean to you;
Take that time to say the words
     before your time is through.

Be sure that you appreciate
     everything you’ve got
And be thankful for the little things
     in life that mean a lot.

by Regina Riggs

Time's Paces

5/10/2019

The following are three versions of one poem.

Time's Paces

When as a child I laughed and wept,
     time crept.

When as a youth I dreamed and talked,
     time walked.

When I became a full-grown man,
     time ran.

When older still, I daily grew,
     time flew.

Soon I shall find in traveling on,
     time gone.

by Author Unknown

The above poem was based on the poem that follows.

Time’s Paces

When I was a babe and wept and slept,
     Time crept;
When I was a boy and laughed and talked,
     Time walked.

Then when the years saw me a man,
     Time ran.
But as I older grew,
     Time flew.

Soon, as I journey on,
     I’ll find time gone.
May Christ have saved my soul, by then,
     Amen.

by Guy Pentreath (1902 - 1985)

The above poem was based on a yet earlier poem shown below.

Time’s Paces

When as a child I laughed and wept,
     Time crept.
When as a youth I waxed more bold,
     Time strolled.

When I became a full grown man,
     Time ran.
When older still I daily grew,
     Time flew.

Soon I shall find, in passing on,
     Time gone.
O Christ! wilt Thou have saved me then?
     Amen.

by Henry Twells (1823 -1900): “Hymns and Other Stray Verses” (1901)

The Road Not Taken

1/26/2019

The Road Not Taken

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.

by Robert Frost

Robert Lee Frost (rŏbꞋərt lē frôst/frŏst) was born on 26 March 1874 in San Francisco, California, United States of America. He was the quintessential American poet and a leading American poet of the twentieth century. He had the remarkable ability to write poetry about nature and the sights and sounds of rural life in New England that was deeply philosophical and unforgettably beautiful, much of it written while he lived on a farm in New Hampshire. His poetry collections include “Mountain Interval” (1916), “West-running Brook” (1928), “A Further Range” (1936), “Steeple Bush” (1947), and “In the Clearing” (1962). Robert Frost passed on at 88 years of age on 29 January 1963 in Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America.

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“The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost is a lyric poem in which a point of divergence, in this instance a fork in a road, is symbolic of the dilemma people face when they must make choices in life.

Diverged: branched out or headed in different directions.
Trodden: walked on.
Hence: from this time forward.
Fork: a place where one road splits into two roads.

A Warm House and a Ruddy Fire

12/6/2018

A Warm House and a Ruddy Fire

A warm house and a ruddy fire,
     To what more can man aspire?
Eyes that shine with love aglow,
     Is there more for man to know?

Whether home be rich or poor,
     If contentment mark the door
He who finds it good to live
     Has the best that life can give.

This the end of mortal strife!
     Peace at night to sweeten life,
Rest when mind and body tire,
     At contentment’s ruddy fire.

Rooms where merry songs are sung,
     Happy old and glorious young;
These, if perfect peace be known,
     Both the rich and poor must own.

A warm house and a ruddy fire,
     These the goals of all desire,
These the dream of every man
     Since God spoke and life began.

by Edgar A. Guest

Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest was born on 20 August 1881 in Birmingham, England. He immigrated with his family to the United States of America in 1891. From his first published work in the “Detroit Free Press” until his passing in 1959, he penned some 11,000 poems that were syndicated in 300 newspapers and collected into more than twenty books. Mr. Guest is reputed to have had a new poem published in a newspaper every day for more than thirty years. He became known as ‘The People’s Poet,’ writing poems that were of a sentimental and optimistic nature. Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest passed on at 77 years of age on 5 August 1959 in Detroit, Michigan, United States of America.

I’m Counting My Blessings

10/24/2018

I’m Counting My Blessings

I’m counting my blessings.
I’ve been gifted with another day
to experience being alive.
I choose to make the best of this moment,
and I vow not to take this day,
Nor its gifts, for granted.

I appreciate the little things
that are too often missed, passed by.
I’m intent on seeing the beauty
that’s usually hidden in plain sight,
for I know that I’m blessed just to be here,
participating in life on Earth.

I give thanks for the tiny miracle today,
For perhaps there are no little things.
To live at all is miracle enough.

by Author Unknown

Two Pictures

10/17/2018

Two Pictures

An old farm-house with meadows wide,
     And sweet with clover on each side;
A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out
     The door with woodbine wreathed about
And wishes his one thought all day:
     “O, if I could but fly away
From this dull spot, the world to see,
     How happy, happy, happy,
          How happy I should be!”

Amid the city’s constant din,
     A man who round the world has been,
Who, mid the tumult and the throng,
     Is thinking, thinking all day long:
“O, could I only tread once more
     The field-path to the farm-house door,
The old, green meadow could I see,
     How happy, happy, happy,
          How happy I should be!”

by Annie D. Green