- Published on
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
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
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Various Artists - Click Or Tap On Arrow To Play Or Replay Music Or Audio Or Refresh This Page - Turning Points
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The Sun Will Shine On You Again
We all know that
no matter how many clouds
get in the way,
the Sun keeps on shining.
No matter how many times its rays
are blocked from our view,
the Sun will reappear on another day
to shine more brilliantly than before.
It takes determination
to outlast those dark clouds
that sometimes enter your life,
and patience to keep on shining
no matter what gets in your way.
But it all pays off eventually.
One of these days
when you least expect it,
you’ll overcome your difficulties,
because you and the Sun
have a lot in common:
You’re both going to shine
no matter what.
By Barbara J. Hall
Image shown: Sunflower.
Continue scrolling down this website page to read the rest of the article, or click or tap on these words to read Adversities And Persevering Gathered By David Hugh Beaumont.
We all know that
no matter how many clouds
get in the way,
the Sun keeps on shining.
No matter how many times its rays
are blocked from our view,
the Sun will reappear on another day
to shine more brilliantly than before.
It takes determination
to outlast those dark clouds
that sometimes enter your life,
and patience to keep on shining
no matter what gets in your way.
But it all pays off eventually.
One of these days
when you least expect it,
you’ll overcome your difficulties,
because you and the Sun
have a lot in common:
You’re both going to shine
no matter what.
By Barbara J. Hall
Image shown: Sunflower.
Continue scrolling down this website page to read the rest of the article, or click or tap on these words to read Adversities And Persevering Gathered By David Hugh Beaumont.
- Published on
Hold Fast Your Dreams
Hold fast your dreams!
Within your heart
Keep one still, secret spot
Where dreams may go,
And, sheltered so,
May thrive and grow
Where doubt and fear are not.
O keep a place apart,
Within your heart,
For little dreams to go!
Think still of lovely things that are not true.
Let wish and magic work at will in you.
Be sometimes blind to sorrow. Make believe!
Forget the calm that lies
In disillusioned eyes.
Though we all know that we must die,
Yet you and I
May walk like gods and be
Even now at home in immortality.
We see so many ugly things -
Deceits and wrongs and quarrelings;
We know, alas! we know
How quickly fade
The color in the west,
The bloom upon the flower,
The bloom upon the breast
And youth’s blind hour.
Yet keep within your heart
A place apart
Where little dreams may go,
May thrive and grow,
Hold fast - hold fast your dreams!
By Louise Driscoll
Louise D. Driscoll was born on 15 January 1875 in Poughkeepsie, Dutchess County, New York, United States of America. She was educated by private teachers and in the public schools of Catskill, New York. Miss Driscoll first attracted attention with a poem about World War One, titled “Metal Checks,” which received a prize of one hundred dollars from “Poetry: A Magazine of Verse,” after being chosen as the best poem about the war. The poem emphasized the heavy human cost of war that was far from the minds of young women, who were presenting young men with white feathers and encouraging them to enlist. In 1917, her play titled, “The Poor House” was published in “The Drama” magazine, volume 7, section 29, page 448. She had two collections of her poems published in book form: “The Garden of the West” (1922) and “Garden Grace” (1924). She contributed verses and stories to “Poetry Magazine,” with approximately thirteen submissions between 1913 and 1929. She was also a contributor to “Harper’s Magazine.” She lived most of her adult life in Catskill, Greene County, New York, where she worked as the head librarian at the public library. Louise D. Driscoll passed on at 82 years of age on 24 July 1957, and rests in the Jefferson Rural Cemetery in Catskill, New York, United States of America.
Hold fast your dreams!
Within your heart
Keep one still, secret spot
Where dreams may go,
And, sheltered so,
May thrive and grow
Where doubt and fear are not.
O keep a place apart,
Within your heart,
For little dreams to go!
Think still of lovely things that are not true.
Let wish and magic work at will in you.
Be sometimes blind to sorrow. Make believe!
Forget the calm that lies
In disillusioned eyes.
Though we all know that we must die,
Yet you and I
May walk like gods and be
Even now at home in immortality.
We see so many ugly things -
Deceits and wrongs and quarrelings;
We know, alas! we know
How quickly fade
The color in the west,
The bloom upon the flower,
The bloom upon the breast
And youth’s blind hour.
Yet keep within your heart
A place apart
Where little dreams may go,
May thrive and grow,
Hold fast - hold fast your dreams!
By Louise Driscoll
Louise D. Driscoll was born on 15 January 1875 in Poughkeepsie, Dutchess County, New York, United States of America. She was educated by private teachers and in the public schools of Catskill, New York. Miss Driscoll first attracted attention with a poem about World War One, titled “Metal Checks,” which received a prize of one hundred dollars from “Poetry: A Magazine of Verse,” after being chosen as the best poem about the war. The poem emphasized the heavy human cost of war that was far from the minds of young women, who were presenting young men with white feathers and encouraging them to enlist. In 1917, her play titled, “The Poor House” was published in “The Drama” magazine, volume 7, section 29, page 448. She had two collections of her poems published in book form: “The Garden of the West” (1922) and “Garden Grace” (1924). She contributed verses and stories to “Poetry Magazine,” with approximately thirteen submissions between 1913 and 1929. She was also a contributor to “Harper’s Magazine.” She lived most of her adult life in Catskill, Greene County, New York, where she worked as the head librarian at the public library. Louise D. Driscoll passed on at 82 years of age on 24 July 1957, and rests in the Jefferson Rural Cemetery in Catskill, New York, United States of America.
- Published on
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
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
- Published on
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
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
- Published on
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.
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.
- Published on
Mrs. Malone
Mrs. Malone
Lived hard by a wood
All on her lonesome
As nobody should.
With her crust on a plate
And her pot on the coal
And none but herself
To converse with, poor soul.
In a shawl and a hood
She got sticks out-o’-door,
On a bit of old sacking
She slept on the floor,
And nobody, nobody
Asked how she fared
Or knew how she managed,
For nobody cared.
Why make a pother
About an old crone?
What for should they bother
With Mrs. Malone?
One Monday in winter
With snow on the ground
So thick that a footstep
Fell without sound,
She heard a faint frostbitten
Peck on the pane
And went to the window
To listen again.
There sat a cock-sparrow
Bedraggled and weak,
With half-open eyelid
And ice on his beak.
She threw up the sash
And she took the bird in,
And mumbled and fumbled it
Under her chin.
’Ye’re all of a smother,
Ye’re fair overblown!
I’ve room fer another,’
Said Mrs. Malone.
Come Tuesday while eating
Her dry morning slice
With the sparrow a-picking
(‘Ain’t company nice!’)
She heard on her doorpost
A curious scratch,
And there was a cat
With its claw on the latch.
It was hungry and thirsty
And thin as a lath,
It mewed and it mowed
On the slithery path.
She threw the door open
And warmed up some pap,
And huddled and cuddled it
In her old lap.
‘There, there, little brother,
Ye poor skin-an’-bone,
There’s room fer another,’
Said Mrs. Malone.
Come Wednesday while all of them
Crouched on the mat
With a crumb for the sparrow,
A sip for the cat,
There was wailing and whining
Outside in the wood,
And there sat a vixen
With six of her brood.
She was haggard and ragged
And worn to a shred,
And her half-dozen babies
Were only half-fed,
But Mrs. Malone, crying
‘My! ain’t they sweet!’
Happed them and lapped them
And gave them to eat.
‘You warm yerself, mother,
Ye’re cold as a stone!
There’s room fer another,’
Said Mrs. Malone.
Come Thursday a donkey
Stepped in off the road
With sores on his withers
From bearing a load.
Come Friday when icicles
Pierced the white air
Down from the mountainside
Lumbered a bear.
For each she had something,
If little, to give -
‘Lord knows, the poor critters
Must all of ’em live.’
She gave them her sacking,
Her hood and her shawl,
Her loaf and her teapot -
She gave them her all.
‘What with one thing and t’other
Me fambily’s grown,
And there’s room fer another,’
Said Mrs. Malone.
Come Saturday evening
When time was to sup
Mrs. Malone
Had forgot to sit up.
The cat said meeow,
And the sparrow said peep,
The vixen, she’s sleeping,
The bear, let her sleep.
On the back of the donkey
They bore her away,
Through trees and up mountains
Beyond night and day,
Till come Sunday morning
They brought her in state
Through the last cloudbank
As far as the Gate.
‘Who is it,’ asked Peter,
‘You have with you there?’
And donkey and sparrow,
Cat, vixen, and bear
Exclaimed, ‘Do you tell us
Up here she’s unknown?
It’s our mother, God bless us!
It’s Mrs. Malone
Whose havings were few
And whose holding was small
And whose heart was so big
It had room for us all.’
Then Mrs. Malone
Of a sudden awoke,
She rubbed her two eyeballs
And anxiously spoke:
‘Where am I, to goodness,
And what do I see?
My dears, let’s turn back,
This ain’t no place fer me!’
But Peter said, ‘Mother
Go in to the Throne.
There’s room for another
One, Mrs. Malone.’
By Eleanor Farjeon (1881 - 1965)
Mrs. Malone
Lived hard by a wood
All on her lonesome
As nobody should.
With her crust on a plate
And her pot on the coal
And none but herself
To converse with, poor soul.
In a shawl and a hood
She got sticks out-o’-door,
On a bit of old sacking
She slept on the floor,
And nobody, nobody
Asked how she fared
Or knew how she managed,
For nobody cared.
Why make a pother
About an old crone?
What for should they bother
With Mrs. Malone?
One Monday in winter
With snow on the ground
So thick that a footstep
Fell without sound,
She heard a faint frostbitten
Peck on the pane
And went to the window
To listen again.
There sat a cock-sparrow
Bedraggled and weak,
With half-open eyelid
And ice on his beak.
She threw up the sash
And she took the bird in,
And mumbled and fumbled it
Under her chin.
’Ye’re all of a smother,
Ye’re fair overblown!
I’ve room fer another,’
Said Mrs. Malone.
Come Tuesday while eating
Her dry morning slice
With the sparrow a-picking
(‘Ain’t company nice!’)
She heard on her doorpost
A curious scratch,
And there was a cat
With its claw on the latch.
It was hungry and thirsty
And thin as a lath,
It mewed and it mowed
On the slithery path.
She threw the door open
And warmed up some pap,
And huddled and cuddled it
In her old lap.
‘There, there, little brother,
Ye poor skin-an’-bone,
There’s room fer another,’
Said Mrs. Malone.
Come Wednesday while all of them
Crouched on the mat
With a crumb for the sparrow,
A sip for the cat,
There was wailing and whining
Outside in the wood,
And there sat a vixen
With six of her brood.
She was haggard and ragged
And worn to a shred,
And her half-dozen babies
Were only half-fed,
But Mrs. Malone, crying
‘My! ain’t they sweet!’
Happed them and lapped them
And gave them to eat.
‘You warm yerself, mother,
Ye’re cold as a stone!
There’s room fer another,’
Said Mrs. Malone.
Come Thursday a donkey
Stepped in off the road
With sores on his withers
From bearing a load.
Come Friday when icicles
Pierced the white air
Down from the mountainside
Lumbered a bear.
For each she had something,
If little, to give -
‘Lord knows, the poor critters
Must all of ’em live.’
She gave them her sacking,
Her hood and her shawl,
Her loaf and her teapot -
She gave them her all.
‘What with one thing and t’other
Me fambily’s grown,
And there’s room fer another,’
Said Mrs. Malone.
Come Saturday evening
When time was to sup
Mrs. Malone
Had forgot to sit up.
The cat said meeow,
And the sparrow said peep,
The vixen, she’s sleeping,
The bear, let her sleep.
On the back of the donkey
They bore her away,
Through trees and up mountains
Beyond night and day,
Till come Sunday morning
They brought her in state
Through the last cloudbank
As far as the Gate.
‘Who is it,’ asked Peter,
‘You have with you there?’
And donkey and sparrow,
Cat, vixen, and bear
Exclaimed, ‘Do you tell us
Up here she’s unknown?
It’s our mother, God bless us!
It’s Mrs. Malone
Whose havings were few
And whose holding was small
And whose heart was so big
It had room for us all.’
Then Mrs. Malone
Of a sudden awoke,
She rubbed her two eyeballs
And anxiously spoke:
‘Where am I, to goodness,
And what do I see?
My dears, let’s turn back,
This ain’t no place fer me!’
But Peter said, ‘Mother
Go in to the Throne.
There’s room for another
One, Mrs. Malone.’
By Eleanor Farjeon (1881 - 1965)
- Published on
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.
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.
- Published on
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.
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.
- Published on
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
Anna '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). Anna 'Nan' Terrell Reed passed on at 82 years of age on 14 February 1969.
Continue scrolling down this website page to read the next article, or click or tap on these words to read Poverty And Prosperity Gathered By David Hugh Beaumont.
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
Anna '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). Anna 'Nan' Terrell Reed passed on at 82 years of age on 14 February 1969.
Continue scrolling down this website page to read the next article, or click or tap on these words to read Poverty And Prosperity Gathered By David Hugh Beaumont.
