Serious Poems

Count Your Blessings

5/24/2022

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

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Mary Elizabeth Jefferson

5/10/2022

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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.

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The Rainy Day

5/9/2022

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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.

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The Sin of Omission

5/4/2022

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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.

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The Road’ll Turn Someday

8/12/2021

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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

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Bridges

8/8/2021

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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

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A Contrast

8/1/2021

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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.

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Judge Gently

1/12/2021

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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.

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Today

5/21/2020

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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.

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It Hasn’t Been Easy

1/31/2020

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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

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Tomorrow

1/23/2020

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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.

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To Know All Is to Forgive All

1/22/2020

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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.

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Always Remember

1/21/2020

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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

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Little Things in Life

5/11/2019

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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

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Time's Paces

5/10/2019

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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)

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The Road Not Taken

1/26/2019

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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.

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A Warm House and a Ruddy Fire

12/6/2018

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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.

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I’m Counting My Blessings

10/24/2018

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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

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Two Pictures

10/17/2018

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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

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Memories

10/5/2018

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Memories

A little house with three bedrooms and one car on the street,
    A mower that you had to push to make the grass look neat.
In the kitchen on the wall we only had one phone, And no
     need for recording things, someone was always home.
We only had a living room where we would congregate,
    Unless it was at mealtime in the kitchen where we ate.
We had no need for family rooms or extra rooms to dine,
   When meeting as a family those two rooms would work out fine.
We only had one TV set, and channels maybe two, But always
    there was one of them with something worth the view.
For snacks we had potato chips that tasted like a chip,
   And if you wanted flavor there was Lipton’s onion dip.
Store-bought snacks were rare because my mother liked
to cook, And nothing can compare to snacks in Betty Crocker’s book.
The snacks were even healthy with the best ingredients,
     No labels with a hundred things that make not a bit of sense.
Weekends were for family trips or staying home to play,
     We all did things together - even go to church to pray.
When we did our weekend trips depending on the weather,
    No one stayed at home because we liked to be together.
Sometimes we would separate to do things on our own,
But we knew where the others were without our own cell phone.
Then there were the movies with your favorite movie star,
   And nothing can compare to watching movies in your car.
Then there were the picnics at the peak of summer season,
    Pack a lunch and find some trees and never need a reason.
Get a baseball game together with all the friends you know,
     Have real action playing ball - and no game video.
Remember when the doctor used to be the family friend,
     And didn’t need insurance or a lawyer to defend?
The way that he took care of you or what he had to do,
    Because he took an oath and strived to do the best for you.
Remember going to the store and shopping casually, And
   when you went to pay for it you used your own money?
Nothing that you had to swipe or punch in some amount,
   Remember when the cashier person had to really count?
Remember when we breathed the air; it smelled so fresh and clean,
   And chemicals were not used on the grass to keep it green.
The milkman used to go from door to door, And it was just
      a few cents more than going to the store.
There was a time when mailed letters came right to your door,
    Without a lot of junk mail ads sent out by every store.
The mailman knew each house by name and knew where it was sent;
    There were not loads of mail addressed to “present occupant.”
Remember when the words “I do” meant that you really did,
     And not just temporarily ’til someone blows their lid.
T’was no such thing as “no one’s fault; we just made a mistake,”
     There was a time when married life was built on give and take.
There was a time when just one glance was all that it would take,
     And you would know the kind of car, the model and the make.
They didn’t look like turtles trying to squeeze out every mile;
   They were streamlined, white walls, fins, and really had some style.
One time the music that you played whenever you would jive,
      Was from a vinyl, big-holed record called a forty-five.
The record player had a post to keep them all in line,
    And then the records would drop down and play one at a time.
Oh sure, we had our problems then, just like we do today,
    And always we were striving, trying for a better way.
And every year that passed us by brought new and greater things,
    We now can even program phones with music or with rings.
Oh, the simple life we lived still seems like so much fun,
     How can you explain a game, just kick the can and run?
And why would boys put baseball cards between bicycle spokes,
    And for a nickel red machines had little bottled Cokes?
This life seemed so much easier and slower in some ways,
     I love the new technology but I sure miss those days.
So time moves on and so do we, and nothing stays the same,
     But I sure love to reminisce and walk down memory lane.

by Author Unknown

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The Old Country Road

9/20/2018

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The Old Country Road

Where did it come from and where did it go?
     That was the question that puzzled us so,
As we waded the dust of the highway that flowed
     By the farm like a river - the old country road.

We stood with our hair sticking up through the crown
     Of our hat, as the people went up and went down,
And we wished in our hearts as eyes fairly glowed
     We could find where it came from - the old country road.

We remember the peddler who came with his pack,
     Adown the old highway and never went back;
And we wondered what things he had seen as he strode
     From some fabulous place up the old country road.

We remember the stage driver's look of delight,
     And the crack of his whip as he whirled into sight,
And we thought we could read in each glance he bestowed,
     A tale of strange life up the old country road.

The movers came by like a ship in full sail,
     With a rudder behind in the shape of a pail,
With a rollicking crew and a cow that was towed
     With a rope on her horns, down the old country road.

And the gypsies - how well we remember the week
     They camped by the old covered bridge on the creek;
How the neighbors quit work and the crops were unhoed,
     Till the wagons drove off down the old country road.

Oh, the top of the hill was the rim of the world,
    And the dust of the summer that over it curled
Was the curtain that hid from our sight the abode
     Of the fairies that lived up the old country road.

The old country road I can see it still flow
     Down the hill of my dreams, as it did long ago,
And I wish even now that I could lay off my load
     And rest by the side of the old country road.

by Author Unknown

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The House with Nobody in It

9/10/2018

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The House with Nobody in It

Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track
     I go by a poor old farm-house with its shingles broken and black;
I suppose I’ve passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute
     And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.

I’ve never seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;
     That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.
I know that house isn’t haunted and I wish it were, I do,
     For it wouldn’t be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.

This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,
     And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.
It needs new paint and shingles and vines should be trimmed and tied,
     But what it needs most of all is some people living inside.

If I had a bit of money and all my debts were paid,
     I’d put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.
I’d buy that place and fix it up the way that it used to be,
     And I’d find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.

Now a new home standing empty with staring window and door
     Looks idle perhaps and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store,
But there’s nothing mournful about it, it cannot be sad and lone
     For the lack of something within it that it has never known.

But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life,
     That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,
A house that has echoed a baby’s laugh and helped up his stumbling feet,
     Is the saddest sight, when it’s left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.

So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track
     I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,
Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,
     For I can’t help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

by Joyce Kilmer

Joyce Kilmer was born in 1886. He was an American poet. He was killed in action in France on 30 July 1918, during World War I, while serving with the 165th Infantry Division.

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The Price of Riches

9/6/2018

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The Price of Riches

Nobody stops at the rich man’s door to pass the time of day.
     Nobody shouts a “hello!” to him in the good old-fashioned way.
Nobody comes to his porch at night and sits in that extra chair
     And talks till it’s time to go to bed. He’s all by himself up there.

Nobody just happens in to call on the long, cold winter nights.
     Nobody feels that he’s welcome now, though the house is ablaze with lights.
And never an unexpected guest will tap at his massive door
     And stay to tea as he used to do, for his neighborly days are o’er.

It’s a distant life that the rich man leads and many an hour is glum,
     For never the neighbors call on him save when they are asked to come.
At heart he is just as he used to be and he longs for his friends of old,
     But they never will venture unbidden there. They’re afraid of his wall of gold.

For silver and gold in a large amount there’s a price that all men must pay,
     And who will dwell in a rich man’s house must live in a lonely way.
For once you have built a fortune vast you will sigh for the friends you knew
     But never they’ll tap at your door again in the way that they used to do.

by Edgar A. Guest

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Forgive and Forget

9/3/2018

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Forgive and Forget

Forgive and forget! why the world would be lonely,
     The garden a wilderness left to deform,
If the flowers but remembered the chilling winds only,
     And the fields gave no verdure for fear of the storm!
Oh! still in thy loveliness emblem the flower,
     Give the fragrance of feeling to sweeten life’s way;
And prolong not again the brief cloud of an hour,
     With tears that but darken the rest of the day!

Forgive and forget! there’s no breast so unfeeling
     But some gentle thoughts of affection there live;
And the best of us all require something concealing,
     Some heart that with smiles can forget and forgive!
Then away with the cloud from those beautiful eyes
     That brow was no home for such frowns to have met:
Oh! how could our spirits e’er hope for the skies,
     If Heaven refused to forgive and forget.

by Charles Swain

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Be Thankful

8/31/2018

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Be Thankful

Be thankful that you don’t already have everything you desire.
If you did, what would there be to look forward to?

Be thankful when you don’t know something,
for it gives you the opportunity to learn.

Be thankful for the difficult times.
During those times you grow.

Be thankful for your limitations,
because they give you opportunities for improvement.

Be thankful for each new challenge,
because it will build your strength and character.

Be thankful for your mistakes.
They will teach you valuable lessons.

Be thankful when you’re tired and weary,
because it means you’ve made a difference.

It’s easy to be thankful for the good things.
A life of rich fulfillment comes to those who
are also thankful for the setbacks.

Gratitude can turn a negative into a positive.
Find a way to be thankful for your troubles,
and they can become your blessings.

by Author Unknown

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