- Published on
It Pays
It pays to wear a smiling face
And laugh our troubles down,
For all our little troubles wait
Our laughter or our frown.
Beneath the magic of a smile
Our doubts will fade away,
As melts the frost in early spring
Beneath the sunny ray.
It pays to make a worthy cause,
By helping it, our own;
To give the current of our lives
A true and noble tone.
It pays to comfort heavy hearts,
Oppressed with dull despair,
And leave in sorrow-darkened lives
One gleam of brightness there.
It pays to give a helping hand
To eager, earnest youth;
To note, with all their waywardness,
Their courage and their truth;
To strive, with sympathy and love,
Their confidence to win.
It pays to open wide the heart
And let the sunshine in.
By Author Unknown
It pays to wear a smiling face
And laugh our troubles down,
For all our little troubles wait
Our laughter or our frown.
Beneath the magic of a smile
Our doubts will fade away,
As melts the frost in early spring
Beneath the sunny ray.
It pays to make a worthy cause,
By helping it, our own;
To give the current of our lives
A true and noble tone.
It pays to comfort heavy hearts,
Oppressed with dull despair,
And leave in sorrow-darkened lives
One gleam of brightness there.
It pays to give a helping hand
To eager, earnest youth;
To note, with all their waywardness,
Their courage and their truth;
To strive, with sympathy and love,
Their confidence to win.
It pays to open wide the heart
And let the sunshine in.
By Author Unknown
- Published on
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.
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.
- Published on
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)
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)
- Published on
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
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
- Published on
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.
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.
- Published on
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 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.
- Published on
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.
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.
- Published on
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
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
- Published on
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.
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.
- Published on
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.
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.
