- Published on
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
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
- Published on
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.
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.
- Published on
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
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
- Published on
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
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
- Published on
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
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
- Published on
Count Your Blessings
I’ve never made a fortune,
and it’s probably too late now.
But I don’t worry about that much,
I’m happy anyhow.
And as I go along life’s way,
I’m reaping better than I sowed.
I’m drinking from my saucer,
’Cause my cup has overflowed.
Haven’t got a lot of riches,
and sometimes the going’s tough.
But I’ve got loving ones all around me,
and that makes me rich enough.
I thank God for his blessings,
and the mercies He’s bestowed.
I’m drinking from my saucer,
’Cause my cup has overflowed.
I remember times when things went wrong,
My faith wore somewhat thin.
But all at once the dark clouds broke,
and the sun peeped through again.
So Lord, help me not to gripe,
about the tough rows I have hoed.
I’m drinking from my saucer,
’Cause my cup has overflowed.
If God gives me strength and courage,
When the way grows steep and rough.
I’ll not ask for other blessings,
I’m already blessed enough.
And may I never be too busy,
to help others bear their loads.
Then I’ll keep drinking from my saucer,
’Cause my cup has overflowed.
by Author Unknown
I’ve never made a fortune,
and it’s probably too late now.
But I don’t worry about that much,
I’m happy anyhow.
And as I go along life’s way,
I’m reaping better than I sowed.
I’m drinking from my saucer,
’Cause my cup has overflowed.
Haven’t got a lot of riches,
and sometimes the going’s tough.
But I’ve got loving ones all around me,
and that makes me rich enough.
I thank God for his blessings,
and the mercies He’s bestowed.
I’m drinking from my saucer,
’Cause my cup has overflowed.
I remember times when things went wrong,
My faith wore somewhat thin.
But all at once the dark clouds broke,
and the sun peeped through again.
So Lord, help me not to gripe,
about the tough rows I have hoed.
I’m drinking from my saucer,
’Cause my cup has overflowed.
If God gives me strength and courage,
When the way grows steep and rough.
I’ll not ask for other blessings,
I’m already blessed enough.
And may I never be too busy,
to help others bear their loads.
Then I’ll keep drinking from my saucer,
’Cause my cup has overflowed.
by Author Unknown
- Published on
Thick Is the Darkness
Thick is the darkness -
Sunward, O, sunward!
Rough is the highway -
Onward, still onward!
Dawn harbors surely
East of the shadows.
Facing us somewhere
Spread the sweet meadows.
Upward and forward!
Time will restore us:
Light is above us,
Rest is before us.
by William Ernest Henley
William Ernest Henley was born in 1849. He was an influential poet, critic and editor of the late-Victorian era in England. He is regarded as having as central a role in his time as Samuel Johnson in the eighteenth century. He is remembered most often for his poem “Invictus” (1875), a piece which recurs in popular awareness. It is one of his hospital poems from early battles with tuberculosis, and is said to have developed the artistic motif of poet as a patient, and to have anticipated modern poetry in form and subject matter. William Ernest Henley passed on in 1903.
Thick is the darkness -
Sunward, O, sunward!
Rough is the highway -
Onward, still onward!
Dawn harbors surely
East of the shadows.
Facing us somewhere
Spread the sweet meadows.
Upward and forward!
Time will restore us:
Light is above us,
Rest is before us.
by William Ernest Henley
William Ernest Henley was born in 1849. He was an influential poet, critic and editor of the late-Victorian era in England. He is regarded as having as central a role in his time as Samuel Johnson in the eighteenth century. He is remembered most often for his poem “Invictus” (1875), a piece which recurs in popular awareness. It is one of his hospital poems from early battles with tuberculosis, and is said to have developed the artistic motif of poet as a patient, and to have anticipated modern poetry in form and subject matter. William Ernest Henley passed on in 1903.
- Published on
You Have to Believe in Happiness
You have to believe in happiness,
Or happiness never comes.
I know that the bird chirps none the less,
When all that he finds is crumbs.
You have to believe that winds will blow,
Believe in the grass, the days of snow,
Ah, that’s the reason the bird can sing:
On his darkest day he believes in Spring.
You have to believe in happiness,
It isn’t an outward thing;
The Spring never makes the song, I guess,
As much as the song makes the Spring.
Aye, man’s heart could find content,
If it saw the joy on the road it went,
The joy ahead when it had to grieve,
For the joy is there - but you have to believe.
by Douglas Malloch
Douglas Malloch, Senior was born on 5 May 1877 in Muskegon, Michigan, United States of America. He grew up in the midst of logging camps, sawmills, and lumber yards. He became enamored with writing poems and stories about lumbering scenes and eventually became known as the ‘Lumbermen’s Poet.’ He wrote his first poem at 10 years of age, which was published in the “Detroit News.” After leaving school, he took a job on the editorial staff at the “Muskegon Chronicle,” where he remained for 13 years, becoming a reporter and feature writer for the paper. After leaving the “Muskegon Chronicle,” he joined the staff of the “American Lumberman” in 1903 as a syndicated columnist. Mr. Malloch soon became a popular and nationally renowned humorist, lecturer, and radio personality. His column was often written in the form of a poem and eventually the poems were collected into a series of books with “In Forest Land” (1906) being his first published work and a national best seller. Douglas Malloch, Senior passed on at 61 years of age on 2 July 1938 in Muskegon, Michigan, United States of America.
You have to believe in happiness,
Or happiness never comes.
I know that the bird chirps none the less,
When all that he finds is crumbs.
You have to believe that winds will blow,
Believe in the grass, the days of snow,
Ah, that’s the reason the bird can sing:
On his darkest day he believes in Spring.
You have to believe in happiness,
It isn’t an outward thing;
The Spring never makes the song, I guess,
As much as the song makes the Spring.
Aye, man’s heart could find content,
If it saw the joy on the road it went,
The joy ahead when it had to grieve,
For the joy is there - but you have to believe.
by Douglas Malloch
Douglas Malloch, Senior was born on 5 May 1877 in Muskegon, Michigan, United States of America. He grew up in the midst of logging camps, sawmills, and lumber yards. He became enamored with writing poems and stories about lumbering scenes and eventually became known as the ‘Lumbermen’s Poet.’ He wrote his first poem at 10 years of age, which was published in the “Detroit News.” After leaving school, he took a job on the editorial staff at the “Muskegon Chronicle,” where he remained for 13 years, becoming a reporter and feature writer for the paper. After leaving the “Muskegon Chronicle,” he joined the staff of the “American Lumberman” in 1903 as a syndicated columnist. Mr. Malloch soon became a popular and nationally renowned humorist, lecturer, and radio personality. His column was often written in the form of a poem and eventually the poems were collected into a series of books with “In Forest Land” (1906) being his first published work and a national best seller. Douglas Malloch, Senior passed on at 61 years of age on 2 July 1938 in Muskegon, Michigan, United States of America.
- Published on
The Old Farmer’s Song
At the edge of the world, I graze my sheep,
Where storm clouds swirl, and the valley cuts deep.
I’ve farmed this land for fifty years,
Calloused my hands on shovels and shears.
Raised my cattle as best I could,
A constant battle in thick bog mud.
But a soaring hawk, a hare on the run,
An early walk with the rising sun.
A horse’s flanks as they heave and steam,
Frost on the banks of a snow-melt stream.
Make my old heart beat to the rhythm of the farm,
The low pig grunts and the cows in the barn.
Till I’m ash and dust, till I’m dead and gone,
I’ll be in these hills, and I’ll sing this song.
by Matt Goodfellow
At the edge of the world, I graze my sheep,
Where storm clouds swirl, and the valley cuts deep.
I’ve farmed this land for fifty years,
Calloused my hands on shovels and shears.
Raised my cattle as best I could,
A constant battle in thick bog mud.
But a soaring hawk, a hare on the run,
An early walk with the rising sun.
A horse’s flanks as they heave and steam,
Frost on the banks of a snow-melt stream.
Make my old heart beat to the rhythm of the farm,
The low pig grunts and the cows in the barn.
Till I’m ash and dust, till I’m dead and gone,
I’ll be in these hills, and I’ll sing this song.
by Matt Goodfellow
- Published on
A Wish
Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill
With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.
The village church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze
And point with taper spire to Heaven.
by S. Rogers
Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill
With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.
The village church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze
And point with taper spire to Heaven.
by S. Rogers
