- Published on
Miss Me - But Let Me Go
When I come to the end of the road
And the sun has set for me,
I want no rites in a gloom-filled room,
Why cry for a soul set free.
Miss me a little, but not too long,
And not with your head bowed low.
Remember the love that we once shared,
Miss me, but let me go.
For this journey that we all must take,
And each must go alone.
It’s all a part of the Master’s plan,
A step on the road to home.
When we are lonely and sick at heart,
Go to the friends we know,
And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds,
Miss me, but let me go.
by Author Unknown
When I come to the end of the road
And the sun has set for me,
I want no rites in a gloom-filled room,
Why cry for a soul set free.
Miss me a little, but not too long,
And not with your head bowed low.
Remember the love that we once shared,
Miss me, but let me go.
For this journey that we all must take,
And each must go alone.
It’s all a part of the Master’s plan,
A step on the road to home.
When we are lonely and sick at heart,
Go to the friends we know,
And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds,
Miss me, but let me go.
by Author Unknown
- Published on
Lingering Joys
The tide recedes, but leaves behind
bright seashells on the sand.
The sun goes down, but gentle warmth
still lingers in the land,
The music stops, and yet it echoes
on in sweet refrains . . .
For every joy that passes,
something beautiful remains.
by Author Unknown
The tide recedes, but leaves behind
bright seashells on the sand.
The sun goes down, but gentle warmth
still lingers in the land,
The music stops, and yet it echoes
on in sweet refrains . . .
For every joy that passes,
something beautiful remains.
by Author Unknown
- Published on
The Day We Flew Kites
“String!” shouted Brother, bursting into the kitchen. “We need lots more string.”
It was Saturday. As always, it was a busy one, for “Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work” was taken seriously then. Outside, Father and Mr. Patrick next door were doing chores.
Inside the two houses, Mother and Mrs. Patrick were engaged in spring cleaning. Such a windy March day was ideal for “turning out” clothes closets. Already woolens flapped on back yard clotheslines.
Somehow the boys had slipped away to the back lot with their kites. Now, even at the risk of having Brother impounded to beat carpets, they had sent him for more string. Apparently, there was no limit to the heights to which kites would soar today.
My mother looked at the sitting room, its furniture disordered for a Spartan sweeping. Again her eyes wavered toward the window. Come on girls! “Let’s take string to the boys and watch them fly the kites a minute.”
On the way we met Mrs. Patrick, laughing guiltily, escorted by her girls.
There never was such a day for flying kites! God doesn’t make two such days in a century. We played all our fresh twine into the boys’ kites and still they soared. We could hardly distinguish the tiny, orange-colored specks. Now and then we slowly reeled one in, finally bringing it dipping and tugging to earth, for the sheer joy of sending it up again. What a thrill to run with them, to the right, to the left, and see our poor, earth-bound movements reflected minutes later in the majestic sky-dance of the kites! We wrote wishes on slips of paper and slipped them over the string. Slowly, irresistibly, they climbed up until they reached the kites. Surely all wishes would be granted.
Even our Fathers dropped hoe and hammer and joined us. Our mothers took their turn, laughing like schoolgirls. Their hair blew out their pompadour and curled loose about their cheeks; their gingham aprons whipped about their legs. Mingled with our fun was something akin to awe. The grownups were really playing with us! Once I looked at Mother and thought she looked actually pretty. And her over forty!
We never knew where the hours went on that hilltop that day. There were no hours, just a golden breeze now. I think we were all beside ourselves. Parents forgot their duty and their dignity; children forgot their combativeness and small spites. “Perhaps it’s like this in the kingdom of Heaven,” I thought confusedly.
It was growing dark before, drunk with sun and air, we all stumbled sleepily back to the houses. I suppose we had some sort of supper. I suppose there must have been a surface tidying-up, for the house on Sunday looked decorous enough.
The strange thing was, we didn’t mention that day afterward. I felt a little embarrassed. Surely none of the others had thrilled to it as deeply as I. I locked the memory up in that deepest part of me where we keep “the things that cannot be and yet they are.”
The years went on, then one day I was scurrying about my own kitchen in a city apartment, trying to get some work out of the way while my three-year old insistently cried her desire to, “go park and see ducks.”
“I can’t go!” I said. “I have this and this to do, and when I’m through I’ll be too tired to walk that far.”
My mother, who was visiting us, looked up from the peas she was shelling. “It’s a wonderful day,” she offered; “really warm, yet there’s a fine, fresh breeze. It reminds me of that day we flew kites.”
I stopped in my dash between stove and sink. The locked door flew open and with it a gush of memories. I pulled off my apron. “Come on” I told my little girl. “You’re right, it’s too good a day to miss.”
Another decade passed. We were in the aftermath of a great war. All evening we had been asking our returned soldier, the youngest Patrick Boy, about his experiences as a prisoner of war. He had talked freely, but now for a long time he had been silent. What was he thinking of - what dark and dreadful things?
“Say!” A smile twitched his lips. “Do you remember - no, of course you wouldn’t. It probably didn’t make the impression on you it did on me.”
I hardly dared speak. “Remember what?”
“I used to think of that day a lot in PW camp, when things weren’t too good. Do you remember the day we flew the kites?”
Winter came, and the sad duty of call of condolence on Mrs. Patrick, recently widowed. I dreaded the call. I couldn’t imagine how Mrs. Patrick could face life alone.
We talked a little of my family and her grandchildren and the changes in the town. Then she was silent, looking down at her lap. I cleared my throat. Now I must say something about her loss, and she would begin to cry.
When she looked up, Mrs. Patrick was smiling. “I was just sitting here thinking,” she said. “Henry had such fun that day. Frances, do you remember the day we flew the kites?”
by Frances Fowler
“String!” shouted Brother, bursting into the kitchen. “We need lots more string.”
It was Saturday. As always, it was a busy one, for “Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work” was taken seriously then. Outside, Father and Mr. Patrick next door were doing chores.
Inside the two houses, Mother and Mrs. Patrick were engaged in spring cleaning. Such a windy March day was ideal for “turning out” clothes closets. Already woolens flapped on back yard clotheslines.
Somehow the boys had slipped away to the back lot with their kites. Now, even at the risk of having Brother impounded to beat carpets, they had sent him for more string. Apparently, there was no limit to the heights to which kites would soar today.
My mother looked at the sitting room, its furniture disordered for a Spartan sweeping. Again her eyes wavered toward the window. Come on girls! “Let’s take string to the boys and watch them fly the kites a minute.”
On the way we met Mrs. Patrick, laughing guiltily, escorted by her girls.
There never was such a day for flying kites! God doesn’t make two such days in a century. We played all our fresh twine into the boys’ kites and still they soared. We could hardly distinguish the tiny, orange-colored specks. Now and then we slowly reeled one in, finally bringing it dipping and tugging to earth, for the sheer joy of sending it up again. What a thrill to run with them, to the right, to the left, and see our poor, earth-bound movements reflected minutes later in the majestic sky-dance of the kites! We wrote wishes on slips of paper and slipped them over the string. Slowly, irresistibly, they climbed up until they reached the kites. Surely all wishes would be granted.
Even our Fathers dropped hoe and hammer and joined us. Our mothers took their turn, laughing like schoolgirls. Their hair blew out their pompadour and curled loose about their cheeks; their gingham aprons whipped about their legs. Mingled with our fun was something akin to awe. The grownups were really playing with us! Once I looked at Mother and thought she looked actually pretty. And her over forty!
We never knew where the hours went on that hilltop that day. There were no hours, just a golden breeze now. I think we were all beside ourselves. Parents forgot their duty and their dignity; children forgot their combativeness and small spites. “Perhaps it’s like this in the kingdom of Heaven,” I thought confusedly.
It was growing dark before, drunk with sun and air, we all stumbled sleepily back to the houses. I suppose we had some sort of supper. I suppose there must have been a surface tidying-up, for the house on Sunday looked decorous enough.
The strange thing was, we didn’t mention that day afterward. I felt a little embarrassed. Surely none of the others had thrilled to it as deeply as I. I locked the memory up in that deepest part of me where we keep “the things that cannot be and yet they are.”
The years went on, then one day I was scurrying about my own kitchen in a city apartment, trying to get some work out of the way while my three-year old insistently cried her desire to, “go park and see ducks.”
“I can’t go!” I said. “I have this and this to do, and when I’m through I’ll be too tired to walk that far.”
My mother, who was visiting us, looked up from the peas she was shelling. “It’s a wonderful day,” she offered; “really warm, yet there’s a fine, fresh breeze. It reminds me of that day we flew kites.”
I stopped in my dash between stove and sink. The locked door flew open and with it a gush of memories. I pulled off my apron. “Come on” I told my little girl. “You’re right, it’s too good a day to miss.”
Another decade passed. We were in the aftermath of a great war. All evening we had been asking our returned soldier, the youngest Patrick Boy, about his experiences as a prisoner of war. He had talked freely, but now for a long time he had been silent. What was he thinking of - what dark and dreadful things?
“Say!” A smile twitched his lips. “Do you remember - no, of course you wouldn’t. It probably didn’t make the impression on you it did on me.”
I hardly dared speak. “Remember what?”
“I used to think of that day a lot in PW camp, when things weren’t too good. Do you remember the day we flew the kites?”
Winter came, and the sad duty of call of condolence on Mrs. Patrick, recently widowed. I dreaded the call. I couldn’t imagine how Mrs. Patrick could face life alone.
We talked a little of my family and her grandchildren and the changes in the town. Then she was silent, looking down at her lap. I cleared my throat. Now I must say something about her loss, and she would begin to cry.
When she looked up, Mrs. Patrick was smiling. “I was just sitting here thinking,” she said. “Henry had such fun that day. Frances, do you remember the day we flew the kites?”
by Frances Fowler
- Published on
Remember Me This Way
When I come to the end of my journey
And I travel my last weary mile,
Just forget if you can, that I ever frowned
And remember only the smile.
Forget unkind words I have spoken;
Remember some good I have done.
Forget that I ever had heartache
And remember I’ve had loads of fun.
Forget that I’ve stumbled and blundered
And sometimes fell by the way.
Remember I have fought some hard battles
And won, ere the close of the day.
Then forget to grieve for my going,
I would not have you sad for a day,
But in summer just gather some flowers
And remember the place where I lay,
And come in the shade of evening
When the sun paints the sky in the west
Stand for a few moments beside me
And remember only my best.
by Mrs. Lyman Hancock
When I come to the end of my journey
And I travel my last weary mile,
Just forget if you can, that I ever frowned
And remember only the smile.
Forget unkind words I have spoken;
Remember some good I have done.
Forget that I ever had heartache
And remember I’ve had loads of fun.
Forget that I’ve stumbled and blundered
And sometimes fell by the way.
Remember I have fought some hard battles
And won, ere the close of the day.
Then forget to grieve for my going,
I would not have you sad for a day,
But in summer just gather some flowers
And remember the place where I lay,
And come in the shade of evening
When the sun paints the sky in the west
Stand for a few moments beside me
And remember only my best.
by Mrs. Lyman Hancock
- Published on
The Gentle Gardener
I’d like to leave but daffodils to mark my little way,
To leave but tulips red and white behind me as I stray;
I’d like to pass away from Earth and feel I’d left behind
But roses and forget-me-nots for all who come to find.
I’d like to sow the barren spots with all the flowers of Earth,
To leave a path where those who come should find but gentle mirth;
And when at last I’m called upon to join the heavenly throng
I’d like to feel along my way I’d left no sign of wrong.
And yet the cares are many and the hours of toil are few;
There is not time enough on Earth for all I’d like to do;
But, having lived and having toiled, I’d like the world to find
Some little touch of beauty that my soul had left behind.
by Edgar 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’d like to leave but daffodils to mark my little way,
To leave but tulips red and white behind me as I stray;
I’d like to pass away from Earth and feel I’d left behind
But roses and forget-me-nots for all who come to find.
I’d like to sow the barren spots with all the flowers of Earth,
To leave a path where those who come should find but gentle mirth;
And when at last I’m called upon to join the heavenly throng
I’d like to feel along my way I’d left no sign of wrong.
And yet the cares are many and the hours of toil are few;
There is not time enough on Earth for all I’d like to do;
But, having lived and having toiled, I’d like the world to find
Some little touch of beauty that my soul had left behind.
by Edgar 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.
- Published on
Remember
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann’d:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
by Christina Rossetti (1862)
Christina Georgina Rossetti was born on 5 December 1830 in London, England. She was a poet. She is known for “Goblin Market” and “Remember” among other works. Christina Georgina Rossetti passed on at 64 years of age on 29 December 1894 in London, England.
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann’d:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
by Christina Rossetti (1862)
Christina Georgina Rossetti was born on 5 December 1830 in London, England. She was a poet. She is known for “Goblin Market” and “Remember” among other works. Christina Georgina Rossetti passed on at 64 years of age on 29 December 1894 in London, England.
- Published on
Words of Henry Scott Holland
Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
by Henry Scott Holland: “Death the King of Terrors” (May 1910), sermon excerpt shown
Henry Scott Holland was born on 27 January 1847 in Ledbury, Herefordshire, England. He was an Anglican priest, a professor of divinity at Oxford University, and a canon of Saint Paul’s Cathedral. Henry Scott Holland passed on at 71 years of age on 17 March 1918 in Christ Church, Oxford, England.
Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
by Henry Scott Holland: “Death the King of Terrors” (May 1910), sermon excerpt shown
Henry Scott Holland was born on 27 January 1847 in Ledbury, Herefordshire, England. He was an Anglican priest, a professor of divinity at Oxford University, and a canon of Saint Paul’s Cathedral. Henry Scott Holland passed on at 71 years of age on 17 March 1918 in Christ Church, Oxford, England.
