The Uncultured Rhymer To His Cultured Critics
Fight through ignorance, want, and care —
Through the griefs that crush the spirit;
Push your way to a fortune fair,
And the smiles of the world you’ll merit.
Long, as a boy, for the chance to learn —
For the chance that Fate denies you;
Win degrees where the Life-lights burn,
And scores will teach and advise you.
My cultured friends! you have come too late
With your bypath nicely graded;
I’ve fought thus far on my track of Fate,
And I’ll follow the rest unaided.
Must I be stopped by a college gate
On the track of Life encroaching?
Be dumb to Love, and be dumb to Hate,
For the lack of a college coaching?
You grope for Truth in a language dead —
In the dust ’neath tower and steeple!
What know you of the tracks we tread?
And what know you of our people?
‘I must read this, and that, and the rest,’
And write as the cult expects me? —
I’ll read the book that may please me best,
And write as my heart directs me!
You were quick to pick on a faulty line
That I strove to put my soul in:
Your eyes were keen for a ‘dash’ of mine
In the place of a semi-colon —
And blind to the rest. And is it for such
As you I must brook restriction?
‘I was taught too little?’ I learnt too much
To care for a pedant’s diction!
Must I turn aside from my destined way
For a task your Joss would find me?
I come with strength of the living day,
And with half the world behind me;
I leave you alone in your cultured halls
To drivel and croak and cavil:
Till your voice goes further than college walls,
Keep out of the tracks we travel!
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Tracks I Leave Behind
We leave tracks in everything we do
and as a writer; I leave tracks
within everything I write.
Little bits of me within the lines
as I write along.
Sometime in the future
people will read what I write
and find the little bits of me.
They will find my sorrows and my joy,
the love that burns within my heart
and the sorrows in my soul.
They are all in there within
the tracks that I leave behind.
Sometimes fiction can be more fact
and if you read the signs,
you will see the way I act.
There is something of me
in all the tracks I leave behind.
27 September 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Writer's Dream
A writer wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar;
For his was a spirit that forced his pen to write of the things that are.
His heart grew tired of the truths he told, for his life was hard and grim;
His land seemed barren, its people cold—yet the world was dear to him;—
So he sailed away from the Streets of Strife, he travelled by land and sea,
In search of a people who lived a life as life in the world should be.
And he reached a spot where the scene was fair, with forest and field and wood,
And all things came with the seasons there, and each of its kind was good;
There were mountain-rivers and peaks of snow, there were lights of green and gold,
And echoing caves in the cliffs below, where a world-wide ocean rolled.
The lives of men from the wear of Change and the strife of the world were free—
For Steam was barred by the mountain-range and the rocks of the Open Sea.
And the last that were born of a noble race—when the page of the South was fair—
The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last of the victors there.
He saw their hearts with the author’s eyes who had written their ancient lore,
And he saw their lives as he’d dreamed of such—ah! many a year before.
And ‘I’ll write a book of these simple folk ere I to the world return,
‘And the cold who read shall be kind for these—and the wise who read shall learn.
‘Never again in a song of mine shall a jarring note be heard:
‘Never again shall a page or line be marred by a bitter word;
‘But love and laughter and kindly hours will the book I’ll write recall,
‘With chastening tears for the loss of one, and sighs for their sorrows all.
‘Old eyes will light with a kindly smile, and the young eyes dance with glee—
‘And the heart of the cynic will rest awhile for my simple folk and me.’
The lines ran on as he dipped his pen—ran true to his heart and ear—
Like the brighter pages of memory when every line is clear.
The pictures came and the pictures passed, like days of love and light—
He saw his chapters from first to last, and he thought it grand to write.
And the writer kissed his girlish wife, and he kissed her twice for pride:
‘’Tis a book of love, though a book of life! and a book you’ll read!’ he cried.
He was blind at first to each senseless slight (for shabby and poor he came)
From local ‘Fashion’ and mortgaged pride that scarce could sign its name.
What dreamer would dream of such paltry pride in a scene so fresh and fair?
But the local spirit intensified—with its pitiful shams—was there;
There were cliques wherever two houses stood (no rest for a family ghost!)
They hated each other as women could—but they hated the stranger most.
The writer wrote by day and night and he cried in the face of Fate—
‘I’ll cleave to my dream of life in spite of the cynical ghosts that wait.
‘’Tis the shyness born of their simple lives,’ he said to the paltry pride—
(The homely tongues of the simple wives ne’er erred on the generous side)—
‘They’ll prove me true and they’ll prove me kind ere the year of grace be passed,’
But the ignorant whisper of ‘axe to grind!’ went home to his heart at last.
The writer sat by his drift-wood fire three nights of the South-east gale,
His pen lay idle on pages vain, for his book was a fairy tale.
The world-wise lines of an elder age were plain on his aching brow,
As he sadly thought of each brighter page that would never be written now.
‘I’ll write no more!’ But he bowed his head, for his heart was in Dreamland yet—
‘The pages written I’ll burn,’ he said, ‘and the pages thought forget.’
But he heard the hymn of the Open Sea, and the old fierce anger burned,
And he wrenched his heart from its dreamland free as the fire of his youth returned:—
‘The weak man’s madness, the strong man’s scorn—the rebellious hate of youth
‘From a deeper love of the world are born! And the cynical ghost is Truth!’
And the writer rose with a strength anew wherein Doubt could have no part;
‘I’ll write my book and it shall be true—the truth of a writer’s heart.
‘Ay! cover the wrong with a fairy tale—who never knew want or care—
‘A bright green scum on a stagnant pool that will reek the longer there.
‘You may starve the writer and buy the pen—you may drive it with want and fear—
‘But the lines run false in the hearts of men—and false to the writer’s ear.
‘The bard’s a rebel and strife his part, and he’ll burst from his bonds anew,
‘Till all pens write from a single heart! And so may the dream come true.
‘’Tis ever the same in the paths of men where money and dress are all,
‘The crawler will bully whene’er he can, and the bully who can’t will crawl.
‘And this is the creed in the local hole, where the souls of the selfish rule;
‘Borrow and cheat while the stranger’s green, then sneer at the simple fool.
‘Spit your spite at the men whom Fate has placed in the head-race first,
‘And hate till death, with a senseless hate, the man you have injured worst!
‘There are generous hearts in the grinding street, but the Hearts of the World go west;
‘For the men who toil in the dust and heat of the barren lands are best!
‘The stranger’s hand to the stranger, yet—for a roving folk are mine—
‘The stranger’s store for the stranger set—and the camp-fire glow the sign!
‘The generous hearts of the world, we find, thrive best on the barren sod,
‘And the selfish thrive where Nature’s kind (they’d bully or crawl to God!)
‘I was born to write of the things that are! and the strength was given to me.
‘I was born to strike at the things that mar the world as the world should be!
‘By the dumb heart-hunger and dreams of youth, by the hungry tracks I’ve trod—
‘I’ll fight as a man for the sake of truth, nor pose as a martyred god.
‘By the heart of “Bill” and the heart of “Jim,” and the men that their hearts deem “white,”
‘By the handgrips fierce, and the hard eyes dim with forbidden tears!—I’ll write!
‘I’ll write untroubled by cultured fools, or the dense that fume and fret—
‘For against the wisdom of all their schools I would stake mine instinct yet!
‘For the cynical strain in the writer’s song is the world, not he, to blame,
‘And I’ll write as I think, in the knowledge strong that thousands think the same;
‘And the men who fight in the Dry Country grim battles by day, by night,
‘Will believe in me, and will stand by me, and will say to the world, “He’s right!”’
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Tracks That Lie By India
Now this is not a dismal song, like some I’ve sung of late,
When I’ve been brooding all day long about my muddled fate;
For though I’ve had a rocky time I’ll never quite forget,
And though I never was so deep in trouble and in debt,
And though I never was so poor nor in a fix so tight—
The tracks that run by India are shining in my sight.
The roads that run by India, and all the ports of call—
I’m going back to London first to raise the wherewithal.
I’ll call at Suez and Port Said as I am going past
(I was too worried to take notes when I was that way last),
At Naples and at Genoa, and, if I get the chance,
Who knows but I might run across the pleasant land of France.
The track that runs by India goes up the hot Red Sea—
The other side of Africa is far too dull for me.
(I fear that I have missed a chance I’ll never get again
To see the land of chivalry and bide awhile in Spain.)
I’ll graft a year in London, and if fortune smiles on me
I’ll take the track to India by France and Italy.
’Tis sweet to court some foreign girl with eyes of lustrous glow,
Who does not know my language and whose language I don’t know;
To loll on gently-rolling decks beneath the softening skies,
While she sits knitting opposite, and make love with our eyes—
The glance that says far more than words, the old half-mystic smile—
The track that runs by India will wait for me awhile.
The tracks that run by India to China and Japan,
The tracks where all the rovers go—the tracks that call a Man!
I’m wearied of the formal lands of parson and of priest,
Of dollars and of fashions, and I’m drifting towards the East;
I’m tired of cant and cackle, and of sordid jobbery—
The mystery of the East hath cast its glamour over me.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Alcuin - 0293 2005 Version
Awhile pray pause who, passing by the way,
Lines read, reflections fragile, seedling's clay.
Can you wring from my fate what your's may be?
Unwound my watch, soon your's spun history!
In spite of this world's gifts, Time's ticks won't stay.
Now here, then there sped, bed from care carefree.
And can you for my fortune care today,
Leaves turn to trace if I was sad or gay?
Care you a fig? How long in memory,
Unused, the trace of what Life was to me
In yours may stay, int-urned - all fades away,
Naught human may defy Eternity.
"Are there still Gods who souls with feathers weigh? "
Life's stings some cling to, just for one more day.
Chance led my dance, the rest is best set free,
Unsightly glance, dust in dust locked. No key
Is there unless, perchance, through D.N.A.
Nature's template may decoded be.
(16 March 2005)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Swagman and His Mate
FROM north to south throughout the year
The shearing seasons run,
The Queensland stations start to shear
When Maoriland has done;
But labour’s cheap and runs are wide,
And some the track must tread
From New Year’s Day till Christmastide
And never get a shed!
North, west, and south—south, west and north—
They lead and follow Fate—
The stoutest hearts that venture forth—
The swagman and his mate.
A restless, homeless class they are
Who tramp in Borderland.
They take their rest ’neath moon and star—
Their bed the desert sand,
On sunset tracks they ride and tramp,
Till speech has almost died,
And still they drift from camp to camp
In silence side by side.
They think and dream, as all men do;
Perchance their dreams are great—
Each other’s thoughts are sacred to
The swagman and his mate.
With scrubs beneath the stifling skies
Unstirred by heaven’s breath;
Beyond the Darling Timber lies
The land of living death!
A land that wrong-born poets brave
Till dulled minds cease to grope——
A land where all things perish, save
The memories of Hope.
When daylight’s fingers point out back
(And seem to hesitate)
The far faint dust cloud marks their track—
The swagman and his mate.
And one who followed through the scrub
And out across the plain,
And only in a bitter mood
Would seek those tracks again,
Can only write what he has seen—
Can only give his hand—
And greet those mates in words that mean
“I know”, “I understand.”
I hope they’ll find the squatter “white”,
The cook and shearers “straight”,
When they have reached the shed to-night—
The swagman and his mate.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Lining Track
This song was first released on the all aboard! album. it is the only album it has been released on.
Mo boys, is you right
Done got it right
All I hate about linin track
These ol boys are gonna break my back
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
See eloise gonna line em track
Down in the holler below the fleld
Angels working on the chariot wheel
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
See eloise gonna line em track
Mary and the babe was a sittin in the shade
Thinking on the money that I aint made
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
See eloise gonna line em track
Moses stood on the red sea shore
Gotta batten down the waves with a 2 by 4
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
See eloise gonna line em track
Now if I could I surely would
Stand on the rock where moses stood
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
See eloise gonna line em track
Matthew, mark, luke and john
All them disciples dead and gone
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
See eloise gonna line em track
Mo boys, is you right
Done got it right
All I hate about lining track
These ol boys about to break my back
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
See eloise gonna line em track
Words and music by huddie ledbetter
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Domino College
By: jimmy buffett, dan fogelberg
1986
Found myself a matchbook
Beside some hotel bed
Opened it up and looked inside
And this is what it said
Chorus:
Get on back to school
Domino college, back to school
Boneyard full of knowledge
W-w-w-orking vacation in a third world nation
Back to school (going back to school, going back, back to school)
Fly down to miami
Get yourself a boat
Fill it full of suntan oil
And rent yourself a goat
Aint no registration
Aint no student loan
You may not learn to read or write
But you will surely learn to roll dem bones
Chorus:
Get on back to school
Domino college, back to school
Boneyard full of knowledge
W-w-w-orking vacation in a third world nation
Back to school (going back to school, going back, back to school)
They dont rap your knuckles
If you cut the class
They just track you through the jungle boy
Then they kick your ass
Its a different kind of domino theory
They teach you down in butler town
If you lose you buy the booze
And then the student body all falls down
Chorus:
They cant get back to school
Domino college, back to school
Fountain of knowledge
W-w-w-orking vacation in a third world nation
Back to school (going back, back to school)
Get on back
Make your parents hate you
Be a big disgrace
Act just like a domino
And fall on your face
Chorus:
You cant get back to school
Domino college, back to school
Fountain of knowledge
There aint no graduation from this kind of education
Back to school (going back, back to school)
W-w-w-orking vacation in a third world nation
Back to school (going back, back to school)
Be true to your school
-- spoken:
Oh, jan & dean be true to your school. big six, big six, whose got it? goddamn robert when you gonna play man, hey man, say, you know whose turn it is.
Coda:
Back to school (going back to school) repeat and fade
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As I Am...Was.
No, I don't. I could never think that.
No, I won't. I could never become that.
No, I will never be...like her...Be her..
But..
I became her and now I
And I write these through her beautiful dead eyes
She..
I..
Am a bad girl who often does good
I am a dark heart which sometimes pores light
I'm alone in a sea of blank faces
In a world of hollow graces
Loneliness walks with me all my crooked mornings
He's dumb but his lonely eyes ask me how I feel
'Lonely', I replied
No one to talk to, or who really breathes love into my heart
My heart...
Once loving, once caring, trod broken
Now dead. I'm numb..dumb, and the Crumbs you crushed over to reach your true love...
...which is never me...
Dear life, why bore me? ...inexistence is perfection
My growth left me promises
My dreams made an eagle crawl
The accidents broke my bones
The solitude broke my mind
Their words broke my spirit
As I am...I fear bringing a child into...here
I've fought life for a good life
I walk heads bowed with shame
In fear that the world's mirror reveals my sins
Well I just heard the news today
It says my life is gonna change, yay!
Today it rains heavily as it pours in May
I've forgotten if rain is good or sunshine better
July or when September ends
They all leave with their leaves
Scattered on my shattered life
Sunshine or rain, the pain remains the way
Pin drops, heart breaks, blood splashes
On a cracking ground
My heart beats no more
Stone cold, thread hold
Love walks, eyes cry, life goes on
Bad lucks, rude shocks
Went deaf, blind and dumb...faith
The tunnel flickered a light
Yay! , the end of my tunnel
He told me there's a light at the end of every tunnel
This was her...my light faith, my end trail
Yea, the train, her date with fate
The light, hope at the end of the tunnel
Wasn't light, was...but speeding of a blind train
Breaking the body of a dead soul and broken spirit
Deaf, blind and dumb...faith
Darkness, darkness, train, dead, fate.
Goodbye loneliness, goodbye world.
No I don't. I could never think that.
No, I won't. I could never become that.
No, I will never be...like her...Be her.
poem by Jenim Dibie
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Left To My Own Devices (disco Mix)
I get out of bed at half past ten
Phone up a friend, who's a party animal
Turn on the news and drink some tea
Maybe if you're with me we'll do some shopping
One day I'll read, or learn to drive a car
If you pass the test, you can beat the rest
But I don't like to compete, or talk street, street, street
I can pick up the best from the party animal
I could leave you, say goodbye
Or I could love you, if I try
And I could
And left to my own devices, I probably would
Pick up a brochure about the sun
Learn to ignore what the photographer saw
I was always told that you should join a club
Stick with the gang, if you want to belong
I was a lonely boy, no strength, no joy
In a world of my own at the back of the garden
I didn't want to compete, or play out on the street
For in a secret life I was a round head general
I could leave you, say goodbye
Or I could love you, if I try
And I could
And left to my own devices, I probably would
Left to my own devices, I probably would
Oh, I would
I was faced with a choice at a difficult age
Would I write a book? Or should I take to the stage?
But in the back of my head I heard distant feet
Che Guevara and Dbussy to a disco beat
It's not a crime when you look the way you do
The way I like to picture you
When I get home, it's late at night
I pour a drink and watch the fight
Turn off the TV, look at a book
Pick up the phone, fix some food
Maybe I'll sit up all night and day
Waiting for the minute I hear you say
I could leave you, say goodbye
Or I could love you, if I try
And I could
And left to my own devices, I probably would
Come on, baby, say goodbye
Or I could love you, if I try
And I could
And left to my own devices, I probably would
Left to my own devices, I probably would
(Come on baby)
Left to my own devices, I probably would
song performed by by Pet Shop Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After All
The brooding ghosts of Australian night have gone from the bush and town;
My spirit revives in the morning breeze,
though it died when the sun went down;
The river is high and the stream is strong,
and the grass is green and tall,
And I fain would think that this world of ours is a good world after all.
The light of passion in dreamy eyes, and a page of truth well read,
The glorious thrill in a heart grown cold of the spirit I thought was dead,
A song that goes to a comrade's heart, and a tear of pride let fall --
And my soul is strong! and the world to me is a grand world after all!
Let our enemies go by their old dull tracks,
and theirs be the fault or shame
(The man is bitter against the world who has only himself to blame);
Let the darkest side of the past be dark, and only the good recall;
For I must believe that the world, my dear, is a kind world after all.
It well may be that I saw too plain, and it may be I was blind;
But I'll keep my face to the dawning light,
though the devil may stand behind!
Though the devil may stand behind my back, I'll not see his shadow fall,
But read the signs in the morning stars of a good world after all.
Rest, for your eyes are weary, girl -- you have driven the worst away --
The ghost of the man that I might have been is gone from my heart to-day;
We'll live for life and the best it brings till our twilight shadows fall;
My heart grows brave, and the world, my girl, is a good world after all.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Alcuin - 0293 Acrostic Sonnet Initial Version
All pause and rest, who, passing by the way,
Lines read. Reflect how frail is human clay.
Can you learn from my fate what yours shall be?
Unwound my watch, run down soon yours - you'll see.
In spite of this world's gifts, old Time won't stay.
Now here, tomorrow wed to history.
And can you for my fortune care today,
Leaves turn to trace if I was sad or gay?
Care you a fig? How long in memory,
Unused, the trace of what was Life to me
Is likely to remain? All slips away,
Naught human can defy Eternity!
The Day of Judgement none can e'er delay,
And yet some ask: 'are there still Gods to weigh? '
(8 March 1990)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Hate Your Way
i hate your way i don't care what you say i hate
your way i don't care and i 'm only half there so i
don't care they can cut me down 'til i'm the talk of
the town i'm a fool for you had to sell my soul but
you were so rock and roll i'm a fool for you i hate
your way a little more every day i hate your way a
little more and i could leave but what for a little
more and it's wicked to be so stupid man it's stupid
to be so dumb i'm getting crooked i can feel it i
can feel it in my bones
song performed by by Nina Gordon from Tonight And The Rest Of My Life
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Programme
READER--gentle--if so be
Such still live, and live for me,
Will it please you to be told
What my tenscore pages hold?
Here are verses that in spite
Of myself I needs must write,
Like the wine that oozes first
When the unsqueezed grapes have burst.
Here are angry lines, 'too hard!'
Says the soldier, battle-scarred.
Could I smile his scars away
I would blot the bitter lay,
Written with a knitted brow,
Read with placid wonder now.
Throbbed such passion in my heart?
Did his wounds once really smart?
Here are varied strains that sing
All the changes life can bring,
Songs when joyous friends have met,
Songs the mourner's tears have wet.
See the banquet's dead bouquet,
Fair and fragrant in its day;
Do they read the selfsame lines,--
He that fasts and he that dines?
Year by year, like milestones placed,
Mark the record Friendship traced.
Prisoned in the walls of time
Life has notched itself in rhyme.
As its seasons slid along,
Every year a notch of song,
From the June of long ago,
When the rose was full in blow,
Till the scarlet sage has come
And the cold chrysanthemum.
Read, but not to praise or blame;
Are not all our hearts the same?
For the rest, they take their chance,--
Some may pay a passing glance;
Others,-well, they served a turn,--
Wherefore written, would you learn?
Not for glory, not for pelf,
Not, be sure, to please myself,
Not for any meaner ends,--
Always 'by request of friends.'
Here's the cousin of a king,--
Would I do the civil thing?
Here 's the first-born of a queen;
Here 's a slant-eyed Mandarin.
Would I polish off Japan?
Would I greet this famous man,
Prince or Prelate, Sheik or Shah?--
Figaro gi and Figaro la!
Would I just this once comply?--
So they teased and teased till I
(Be the truth at once confessed)
Wavered--yielded--did my best.
Turn my pages,--never mind
If you like not all you find;
Think not all the grains are gold
Sacramento's sand-banks hold.
Every kernel has its shell,
Every chime its harshest bell,
Every face its weariest look,
Every shelf its emptiest book,
Every field its leanest sheaf,
Every book its dullest leaf,
Every leaf its weakest line,--
Shall it not be so with mine?
Best for worst shall make amends,
Find us, keep us, leave us friends
Till, perchance, we meet again.
Benedicite.--Amen!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Rest Of My Life
Suddenly, it happened so fast
I couldn't believe the news that I received
My heart stopped as I hit the floor
I fell to my knees cryin' Lord help me
No matter what time brings
All the changes we go through
In life there's some things
We just can't prepare for
I don't care what they say
Don't care what they do
I don't care what they think
I'm gonna love you for the rest of my life
Don't they know
True love never dies
I promise to love you for the rest of my life
Life goes on that's what they say
Time will heal all your pain away
But I feel, feel so alone and
Now you're gone how can I live on
No matter what time brings
All the changes we go through
In life there's some things
We just can't prepare for
I don't care what they say
Don't care what they do
I don't care what they think
I'm gonna love you for the rest of my life
Don't they know
True love never dies
I promise to love you for the rest of my life
Until I see you again
I'll hold on to sweet memories
I'll treasure the times we spent
I see I'd do anything
I see your face, I see your smile
Callin' out my name
I don't care what they say
Don't care what they do
I don't care what they think
I'm gonna love you for the rest of my life
Don't they know true love never dies
I promise to love you for the rest of my life
I don't care what they say
Don't care what they do
I don't care what they think
I'm gonna love you for the rest of my life
I don't care what they say
I don't care what they do
What they think
'Cause I promise, I promise
To love you for the rest of my life
(for the rest of my life
song performed by by Xscape
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Do Exactly
Of wisdom, knowledge and understanding;
Of peace, love and care;
Of power, beauty and kindness;
We have the spirit of truth and the spirit of error!
So do not be a lair to your friends.
Dance exactly as he danced and,
Do not follow that which is evil;
Learn exactly as he learnt and,
be very strong like the palm tree;
For this world is getting worse all the time.
Greedy dogs!
They lie to the people;
So do write out exactly as he wrote,
For the truth is always the truth.
Of a great plan,
Of a great puzzle,
It is getting worse all the time with the world;
So try to test every spirit.
I have not send them, yet they run;
I have not spoken to them, yet they speak;
But try to eat from the tree of life to gain wisdom always.
Life is like the potter's clay and,
You have to do exactly as they did;
But do go for the truth always.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Give The People In The World A Chance
Give the people in the world
A chance to embrace peace
Give the people in the world
A chance to make friends
Give the people in the world
A chance for a better education
So it can help them to get
A better paying job
Give the people in the world
A chance for them to love each other
Give a chance for the people in the world to pray
Give a chance for the people in the world to learn
To be happy
Give a chance for the people in the world to learn
To eat healthy
And to learn to take better care of their health
Give a chance for the people in the world to learn how to relax
And to learn how to cope with their anger
poem by Aldo Kraas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Voices Of The Night : A Psalm Of Life
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream! -
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Psalm Of Life
What the heart of the young man said to the psalmist
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!--
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Psalm of Life
Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sand of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solenm main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poets Of The Tomb
The world has had enough of bards who wish that they were dead,
'Tis time the people passed a law to knock 'em on the head,
For 'twould be lovely if their friends could grant the rest they crave --
Those bards of `tears' and `vanished hopes', those poets of the grave.
They say that life's an awful thing, and full of care and gloom,
They talk of peace and restfulness connected with the tomb.
They say that man is made of dirt, and die, of course, he must;
But, all the same, a man is made of pretty solid dust.
There is a thing that they forget, so let it here be writ,
That some are made of common mud, and some are made of GRIT;
Some try to help the world along while others fret and fume
And wish that they were slumbering in the silence of the tomb.
'Twixt mother's arms and coffin-gear a man has work to do!
And if he does his very best he mostly worries through,
And while there is a wrong to right, and while the world goes round,
An honest man alive is worth a million underground.
And yet, as long as sheoaks sigh and wattle-blossoms bloom,
The world shall hear the drivel of the poets of the tomb.
And though the graveyard poets long to vanish from the scene,
I notice that they mostly wish their resting-place kept green.
Now, were I rotting underground, I do not think I'd care
If wombats rooted on the mound or if the cows camped there;
And should I have some feelings left when I have gone before,
I think a ton of solid stone would hurt my feelings more.
Such wormy songs of mouldy joys can give me no delight;
I'll take my chances with the world, I'd rather live and fight.
Though Fortune laughs along my track, or wears her blackest frown,
I'll try to do the world some good before I tumble down.
Let's fight for things that ought to be, and try to make 'em boom;
We cannot help mankind when we are ashes in the tomb.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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