- Published on
Today and Tomorrow
Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own;
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow, do thy worst, for I have lived today.
Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine,
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not heaven itself upon the past has power;
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
by John Dryden: “Imitation of Horace” (1685): Book III, XXIX 29, lines 65 through 68
Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own;
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow, do thy worst, for I have lived today.
Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine,
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not heaven itself upon the past has power;
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
by John Dryden: “Imitation of Horace” (1685): Book III, XXIX 29, lines 65 through 68
- Published on
I Remember, I Remember
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The vi’lets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday-
The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.
by Thomas Hood (1827)
Thomas Hood was born on 23 May 1798 in London, England. He was a poet, a writer, a humorist, an engraver, and an illustrator. His poems were published in periodicals such as “Punch” and “The London Magazine.” He is known for his poem “The Song of the Shirt.” Thomas Hood passed on at 44 years of age on 3 May 1843 in London, England.
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The vi’lets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday-
The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.
by Thomas Hood (1827)
Thomas Hood was born on 23 May 1798 in London, England. He was a poet, a writer, a humorist, an engraver, and an illustrator. His poems were published in periodicals such as “Punch” and “The London Magazine.” He is known for his poem “The Song of the Shirt.” Thomas Hood passed on at 44 years of age on 3 May 1843 in London, England.
- Published on
I Am!
I am - yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes -
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live - like vapors tossed
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange - nay, rather, stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below - above the vaulted sky.
by John Clare
John Clare was born into a peasant family on 13 July 1793 in Helpston, England. Although he was the son of illiterate parents, Mr. Clare received some formal schooling. While earning money through manual labor such as ploughing and threshing, he published several volumes of poetry, including “Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery” (1820). John Clare passed on at 70 years of age on 20 May 1864 in Northampton, England. The John Clare online memorial is at https://goo.gl/eC9FjV.
I am - yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes -
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live - like vapors tossed
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange - nay, rather, stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below - above the vaulted sky.
by John Clare
John Clare was born into a peasant family on 13 July 1793 in Helpston, England. Although he was the son of illiterate parents, Mr. Clare received some formal schooling. While earning money through manual labor such as ploughing and threshing, he published several volumes of poetry, including “Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery” (1820). John Clare passed on at 70 years of age on 20 May 1864 in Northampton, England. The John Clare online memorial is at https://goo.gl/eC9FjV.
- Published on
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
The little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely and dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
by Robert Frost (1923)
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 Lee Frost passed on at 88 years of age on 29 January 1963 in Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America. The Robert Lee Frost online memorial is at https://goo.gl/WyLnLG.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
The little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely and dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
by Robert Frost (1923)
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 Lee Frost passed on at 88 years of age on 29 January 1963 in Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America. The Robert Lee Frost online memorial is at https://goo.gl/WyLnLG.
- Published on
The Land of Beginning Again
I wish that there were some wonderful place
Called the land of Beginning Again,
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches
And all of our poor selfish grief
Could be dropped like a shabby old coat at the door,
And never put on again.
I wish we could come on it all unaware,
Like the hunter who finds a lost trail;
And I wish that the one whom our blindness had done
The greatest injustice of all
Could be at the gates like an old friend that waits
For the comrade he’s gladdest to hail.
We would find all the things we intended to do
But forgot, and remembered too late,
Little praises unspoken, little promises broken,
And all of the thousand and one
Little duties neglected that might have perfected
The day for one less fortunate.
It wouldn’t be possible not to be kind
In the land of Beginning Again;
And the ones we misjudged and the ones
Whom we grudged
The moments of victory here
Would find in the grasp of our loving handclasp
More than penitent lips could explain.
For what had been hardest we’d know had been best
And what had seemed loss would be gain;
For there isn’t a sting that will not take wing
When we’ve faced it and laughed it away;
And I think that the laughter is most what we’re after
In the land of Beginning Again.
So I wish that there were some wonderful place
Called the land of Beginning Again,
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches
And all of our poor selfish grief
Could be dropped like a shabby old coat at the door,
And never be put on again.
by Louisa Fletcher
I wish that there were some wonderful place
Called the land of Beginning Again,
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches
And all of our poor selfish grief
Could be dropped like a shabby old coat at the door,
And never put on again.
I wish we could come on it all unaware,
Like the hunter who finds a lost trail;
And I wish that the one whom our blindness had done
The greatest injustice of all
Could be at the gates like an old friend that waits
For the comrade he’s gladdest to hail.
We would find all the things we intended to do
But forgot, and remembered too late,
Little praises unspoken, little promises broken,
And all of the thousand and one
Little duties neglected that might have perfected
The day for one less fortunate.
It wouldn’t be possible not to be kind
In the land of Beginning Again;
And the ones we misjudged and the ones
Whom we grudged
The moments of victory here
Would find in the grasp of our loving handclasp
More than penitent lips could explain.
For what had been hardest we’d know had been best
And what had seemed loss would be gain;
For there isn’t a sting that will not take wing
When we’ve faced it and laughed it away;
And I think that the laughter is most what we’re after
In the land of Beginning Again.
So I wish that there were some wonderful place
Called the land of Beginning Again,
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches
And all of our poor selfish grief
Could be dropped like a shabby old coat at the door,
And never be put on again.
by Louisa Fletcher
- Published on
It is the Soldier
It is the soldier, not the reporter,
who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the soldier, not the poet,
who has given us freedom of speech.
It is the soldier, not the campus organizer,
who has given us the freedom to demonstrate.
It is the soldier, not the lawyer,
who has given us the right to a fair trial.
It is the soldier,
who salutes the flag, who
serves under the flag, and whose coffin is
draped by the flag, who allows the
protester to burn the flag.
-Dennis Edward O’Brien
Dennis Edward O’Brien was born on 8 October 1923 in Dallas, Texas, United States of America. Mr. O’Brien served in the United States Marine Corp in World War 2. He was ordained a priest on 13 June 1953 and served in Africa, Mexico, and the United States of America. He eventually became a chaplain, with the title Father, in the United States Marine Corps (USMC). Dennis Edward O’Brien passed on at 78 years of age on 29 August 2002.
It is the soldier, not the reporter,
who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the soldier, not the poet,
who has given us freedom of speech.
It is the soldier, not the campus organizer,
who has given us the freedom to demonstrate.
It is the soldier, not the lawyer,
who has given us the right to a fair trial.
It is the soldier,
who salutes the flag, who
serves under the flag, and whose coffin is
draped by the flag, who allows the
protester to burn the flag.
-Dennis Edward O’Brien
Dennis Edward O’Brien was born on 8 October 1923 in Dallas, Texas, United States of America. Mr. O’Brien served in the United States Marine Corp in World War 2. He was ordained a priest on 13 June 1953 and served in Africa, Mexico, and the United States of America. He eventually became a chaplain, with the title Father, in the United States Marine Corps (USMC). Dennis Edward O’Brien passed on at 78 years of age on 29 August 2002.
- Published on
Two Sides of War
All wars are planned by older men
In council rooms apart,
Who call for greater armament
And map the battle chart.
But out along the shattered field
Where golden dreams turned gray,
How very young the faces were
Where all the dead men lay.
Portly and solemn in their pride,
The elders cast their vote
For this or that, or something else,
That sounds the warlike note.
But where their sightless eyes stare out
Beyond life’s vanished joys,
I’ve noticed nearly all the dead
Were hardly more than boys.
-Grantland Rice
Henry Grantland ‘Grantland’ Rice was born on 1 November 1880 in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, United States of America. He was an American newspaperman and sports writer. He is known for his book of sports poetry, “Songs of the Stalwart” (1917). Henry Grantland ‘Grantland’ Rice passed on at 73 years of age on 13 July 1954 in New York City, New York, United States of America. The Grantland Rice online memorial is at https://goo.gl/D4Tkym.
All wars are planned by older men
In council rooms apart,
Who call for greater armament
And map the battle chart.
But out along the shattered field
Where golden dreams turned gray,
How very young the faces were
Where all the dead men lay.
Portly and solemn in their pride,
The elders cast their vote
For this or that, or something else,
That sounds the warlike note.
But where their sightless eyes stare out
Beyond life’s vanished joys,
I’ve noticed nearly all the dead
Were hardly more than boys.
-Grantland Rice
Henry Grantland ‘Grantland’ Rice was born on 1 November 1880 in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, United States of America. He was an American newspaperman and sports writer. He is known for his book of sports poetry, “Songs of the Stalwart” (1917). Henry Grantland ‘Grantland’ Rice passed on at 73 years of age on 13 July 1954 in New York City, New York, United States of America. The Grantland Rice online memorial is at https://goo.gl/D4Tkym.
- Published on
My Garden is a Pleasant Place
My Garden is a pleasant place
Of sun glory and leaf grace.
There is an ancient cherry tree
Where yellow warblers sing to me,
And an old grape arbor, where
A robin builds her nest, and there
Above the lima beans and peas
She croons her little melodies,
Her blue eggs hidden in the green
Fastness of that leafy screen.
Here are striped zinnias that bees
Fly far to visit; and sweet peas,
Like little butterflies newborn,
And over by the tasseled corn
Are sunflowers and hollyhocks,
And pink and yellow four-clocks.
Here are hummingbirds that come
To seek the tall delphinium -
Songless bird and scentless flower
Communing in a golden hour.
There is no blue like the blue cup
The tall delphinium holds up,
Not sky, nor distant hill, nor sea,
Sapphire, nor lapis lazuli.
My lilac trees are old and tall;
I cannot reach their bloom at all.
They send their perfume over trees
And roofs and streets, to find the bees.
I wish some power would touch my ear
With magic touch, and make me hear
What all the blossoms say, and so
I might know what the winged things know.
I’d hear the sunflower’s mellow pipe,
“Goldfinch, goldfinch, my seeds are ripe!”
I’d hear the pale wistaria sing,
“Moon moth, moon moth, I’m blossoming!”
I’d hear the evening primrose cry,
“Oh, firefly! come, firefly!”
And I would learn the jeweled word
The ruby-throated hummingbird
Drops into cups of larkspur blue,
And I would sing them all for you!
My garden is a pleasant place
Of moon glory and wind grace.
O friend, wherever you may be,
Will you not come to visit me?
Over fields and streams and hills,
I’ll pipe like yellow daffodils,
And every little wind that blows
Shall take my message as it goes.
A heart may travel very far
To come where its desires are,
Oh, may some power touch my ear,
And grant me grace, and make you hear!
-Louise Driscoll
Louise 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.” Louise Driscoll lived most of her adult life in Catskill, Greene County, New York, where she worked as the head librarian at the public library. Louise Driscoll passed on at about 82 years of age in 1957.
Image: Gladiolus flowers.
My Garden is a pleasant place
Of sun glory and leaf grace.
There is an ancient cherry tree
Where yellow warblers sing to me,
And an old grape arbor, where
A robin builds her nest, and there
Above the lima beans and peas
She croons her little melodies,
Her blue eggs hidden in the green
Fastness of that leafy screen.
Here are striped zinnias that bees
Fly far to visit; and sweet peas,
Like little butterflies newborn,
And over by the tasseled corn
Are sunflowers and hollyhocks,
And pink and yellow four-clocks.
Here are hummingbirds that come
To seek the tall delphinium -
Songless bird and scentless flower
Communing in a golden hour.
There is no blue like the blue cup
The tall delphinium holds up,
Not sky, nor distant hill, nor sea,
Sapphire, nor lapis lazuli.
My lilac trees are old and tall;
I cannot reach their bloom at all.
They send their perfume over trees
And roofs and streets, to find the bees.
I wish some power would touch my ear
With magic touch, and make me hear
What all the blossoms say, and so
I might know what the winged things know.
I’d hear the sunflower’s mellow pipe,
“Goldfinch, goldfinch, my seeds are ripe!”
I’d hear the pale wistaria sing,
“Moon moth, moon moth, I’m blossoming!”
I’d hear the evening primrose cry,
“Oh, firefly! come, firefly!”
And I would learn the jeweled word
The ruby-throated hummingbird
Drops into cups of larkspur blue,
And I would sing them all for you!
My garden is a pleasant place
Of moon glory and wind grace.
O friend, wherever you may be,
Will you not come to visit me?
Over fields and streams and hills,
I’ll pipe like yellow daffodils,
And every little wind that blows
Shall take my message as it goes.
A heart may travel very far
To come where its desires are,
Oh, may some power touch my ear,
And grant me grace, and make you hear!
-Louise Driscoll
Louise 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.” Louise Driscoll lived most of her adult life in Catskill, Greene County, New York, where she worked as the head librarian at the public library. Louise Driscoll passed on at about 82 years of age in 1957.
Image: Gladiolus flowers.
- Published on
Census
It was the first day of census, and all through the land
each pollster was ready . . . a black book in hand.
He mounted his horse for a long dusty ride,
his book and some quills were tucked close by his side.
A long winding ride down a road barely there,
toward the smell of fresh bread wafting, up through the air.
The woman was tired, with lines on her face
and wisps of brown hair she tucked back into place.
She gave him some water . . . as they sat at the table
and she answered his questions . . . the best she was able.
He asked her of children. Yes, she had quite a few -
the oldest was twenty, the youngest not two.
She held up a toddler with cheeks round and red;
his sister, she whispered, was napping in bed.
She noted each person who lived there with pride,
and she felt the faint stirrings of the wee one inside.
He noted the sex, the color, the age . . .
the marks from the quill soon filled up the page.
At the number of children, she nodded her head
and saw her lips quiver for the three that were dead.
The places of birth she “never forgot”
was it Kansas? or Utah? or Oregon . . . or not?
They came from Scotland, of that she was clear,
but she wasn’t quite sure just how long they’d been here.
They spoke of employment, of schooling and such,
they could read some . . . and write some . . . though really not much.
When the questions were answered, his job there was done
so he mounted his horse and he rode toward the sun.
We can almost imagine his voice loud and clear,
“May God bless you all for another ten years.”
Now picture a time warp . . . it’s now you and me
as we search for the people on our family tree.
We squint at the census and scroll down so slow
as we search for that entry from long, long ago.
Could they only imagine on that long ago day
that the entries they made would affect us this way?
If they knew would they wonder at the yearning we feel
and the searching that makes them so increasingly real.
We can hear if we listen the words they impart
through their blood in our veins and their voice in our heart.
-Author Unknown
It was the first day of census, and all through the land
each pollster was ready . . . a black book in hand.
He mounted his horse for a long dusty ride,
his book and some quills were tucked close by his side.
A long winding ride down a road barely there,
toward the smell of fresh bread wafting, up through the air.
The woman was tired, with lines on her face
and wisps of brown hair she tucked back into place.
She gave him some water . . . as they sat at the table
and she answered his questions . . . the best she was able.
He asked her of children. Yes, she had quite a few -
the oldest was twenty, the youngest not two.
She held up a toddler with cheeks round and red;
his sister, she whispered, was napping in bed.
She noted each person who lived there with pride,
and she felt the faint stirrings of the wee one inside.
He noted the sex, the color, the age . . .
the marks from the quill soon filled up the page.
At the number of children, she nodded her head
and saw her lips quiver for the three that were dead.
The places of birth she “never forgot”
was it Kansas? or Utah? or Oregon . . . or not?
They came from Scotland, of that she was clear,
but she wasn’t quite sure just how long they’d been here.
They spoke of employment, of schooling and such,
they could read some . . . and write some . . . though really not much.
When the questions were answered, his job there was done
so he mounted his horse and he rode toward the sun.
We can almost imagine his voice loud and clear,
“May God bless you all for another ten years.”
Now picture a time warp . . . it’s now you and me
as we search for the people on our family tree.
We squint at the census and scroll down so slow
as we search for that entry from long, long ago.
Could they only imagine on that long ago day
that the entries they made would affect us this way?
If they knew would they wonder at the yearning we feel
and the searching that makes them so increasingly real.
We can hear if we listen the words they impart
through their blood in our veins and their voice in our heart.
-Author Unknown
- Published on
If
If I knew it would be the last time that I’d see you fall asleep,
I would tuck you in more tightly and pray the Lord, your soul to keep,
If I knew it would be the last time that I see you walk out the door,
I would give you a hug and kiss and call you back for one more.
If I knew it would be the last time I’d hear your voice lifted up in praise,
I would video tape each action and word, so I could play them back day after day.
If I knew it would be the last time, I could spare an extra minute or two
To stop and say, “I love you,” instead of assuming, you would know I do.
If I knew it would be the last time I would be there to share your day,
Well, I’m sure you’ll have so many more, so I can let just this one slip away.
For surely there’s always tomorrow to make up for an oversight,
and we always get a second chance to make everything right.
There will always be another day to say our “I love you’s,”
And certainly there’s another chance to say our “Anything I can do’s?”
But just in case I might be wrong, and today is all I get,
I’d like to say how much I love you and I hope we never forget,
Tomorrow is not promised to anyone, young or old alike,
And today may be the last chance you get to hold your loved one tight..
So if you’re waiting for tomorrow, why not do it today?
For if tomorrow never comes, you’ll surely regret the day,
That you didn’t take that extra time for a smile, a hug, or a kiss
And you were too busy to grant someone, what turned out to be their one last wish.
So hold your loved ones close today, whisper in their ear,
Tell them how much you love them and that you’ll always hold them dear,
Take time to say, “I’m sorry,” “please forgive me,” “thank you,” or “it’s okay.”
And if tomorrow never comes, you’ll have no regrets about today.
-Author Unknown
If I knew it would be the last time that I’d see you fall asleep,
I would tuck you in more tightly and pray the Lord, your soul to keep,
If I knew it would be the last time that I see you walk out the door,
I would give you a hug and kiss and call you back for one more.
If I knew it would be the last time I’d hear your voice lifted up in praise,
I would video tape each action and word, so I could play them back day after day.
If I knew it would be the last time, I could spare an extra minute or two
To stop and say, “I love you,” instead of assuming, you would know I do.
If I knew it would be the last time I would be there to share your day,
Well, I’m sure you’ll have so many more, so I can let just this one slip away.
For surely there’s always tomorrow to make up for an oversight,
and we always get a second chance to make everything right.
There will always be another day to say our “I love you’s,”
And certainly there’s another chance to say our “Anything I can do’s?”
But just in case I might be wrong, and today is all I get,
I’d like to say how much I love you and I hope we never forget,
Tomorrow is not promised to anyone, young or old alike,
And today may be the last chance you get to hold your loved one tight..
So if you’re waiting for tomorrow, why not do it today?
For if tomorrow never comes, you’ll surely regret the day,
That you didn’t take that extra time for a smile, a hug, or a kiss
And you were too busy to grant someone, what turned out to be their one last wish.
So hold your loved ones close today, whisper in their ear,
Tell them how much you love them and that you’ll always hold them dear,
Take time to say, “I’m sorry,” “please forgive me,” “thank you,” or “it’s okay.”
And if tomorrow never comes, you’ll have no regrets about today.
-Author Unknown
