Child-Songs
Still linger in our noon of time
And on our Saxon tongue
The echoes of the home-born hymns
The Aryan mothers sung.
And childhood had its litanies
In every age and clime;
The earliest cradles of the race
Were rocked to poet's rhyme.
Nor sky, nor wave, nor tree, nor flower,
Nor green earth's virgin sod,
So moved the singer's heart of old
As these small ones of God.
The mystery of unfolding life
Was more than dawning morn,
Than opening flower or crescent moon
The human soul new-born.
And still to childhood's sweet appeal
The heart of genius turns,
And more than all the sages teach
From lisping voices learns,--
The voices loved of him who sang,
Where Tweed and Teviot glide,
That sound to-day on all the winds
That blow from Rydal-side,--
Heard in the Teuton's household songs,
And folk-lore of the Finn,
Where'er to holy Christmas hearths
The Christ-child enters in!
Before life's sweetest mystery still
The heart in reverence kneels;
The wonder of the primal birth
The latest mother feels.
We need love's tender lessons taught
As only weakness can;
God hath His small interpreters;
The child must teach the man.
We wander wide through evil years,
Our eyes of faith grow dim;
But he is freshest from His hands
And nearest unto Him!
And haply, pleading long with Him
For sin-sick hearts and cold,
The angels of our childhood still
The Father's face behold.
Of such the kingdom!--Teach Thou us,
O-Master most divine,
To feel the deep significance
Of these wise words of Thine!
The haughty eye shall seek in vain
What innocence beholds;
No cunning finds the key of heaven,
No strength its gate unfolds.
Alone to guilelessness and love
That gate shall open fall;
The mind of pride is nothingness,
The childlike heart is all!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Related quotes
Silent Night Medley
O holy night the stars are brightly shining
This is the night of our dear saviors birth
Long lay the world in sin and error pining
Till he appeared and his soul felt its worth
At thrill of hope, the weary soul rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn
Fall on your knees
O hear the angels voices
O night divine
O night when christ was born
Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon virgin mother and child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace
Fall on your knees
O hear the angels voices
O night divine
O night when christ was born
O come o ye faithful
Joyful and triumphant
O come ye o come ye to bethlehem
Come and behold him, born the king of angels
O come let us adore him
O come let us adore him
O come let us adore him christ the lord.
Fall on your knees
O hear the angels voices
O night divine
O night when christ was born
Oh night divine o night o holy
Oh holy night
Oh holy night
Woah
Oh holy night
When jesus was born
Oh holy night
Oh holy night
Oh holy night
Oh holy night
Look at those stars in the sky
Oh holy night
Oh holy night
Oh holy night
Jesus was born tonight
Oh holy night
Oh holy night
Oh holy night
song performed by by Hanson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cherish The Child
Cherish the child within your care
While childhood yet remains,
Anoint your love with precious prayer
Regardless of life's pains...
For sorrow comes to one and all,
No matter who you are,
Yet we must rise each time we fall,
No matter, near or far...
Cherish the child within your reach
While childhood yet exists,
For close-at-hand there's time to teach,
If patience still persists...
Rewards await the heart that shows
A constant love each day,
A love that gently glows and glows,
No matter, come what may...
Cherish the child within your life
While childhood runs its course,
Against this world so full of strife,
Its follies to enforce...
Protect each fragile fragrant flower
So that the child may bloom...
With love the everlasting power
That brightens up each room...
Cherish the child, that little one,
That sacred soul God gave
From when its life has just begun
Until your final wave...
God's promises can be believed,
Your hopes and dreams are known...
Our Father blesses prayers received
From those He calls His own...
poem by Denis Martindale
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Praise Of Ysolt
In vain have I striven,
to teach my heart to bow;
In vain have I said to him
'There be many singers greater than thou'.
But his answer cometh, as winds and as lutany,
As a vague crying upon the night
That leaveth me no rest, saying ever,
'Song, a song.'
Their echoes play upon each other in the twilight
Seeking ever a song.
Lo, I am worn with travail
And the wandering of many roads hath made my eyes
As dark red circles filled with dust.
Yet there is a trembling upon me in the twilight,
And little red elf words crying, ‘A song',
Little grey elf words crying for a song,
Little brown leaf words crying, ‘A song',
Little green leaf words crying for a song.
The words are as leaves, old brown leaves in the spring time
Blowing they know not whither, seeking a song.
White words as snow flakes but they are cold,
Moss words, lip words, words of slow streams.
In vain have I striven
to teach my soul to bow,
In vain have I pled with him:
'There be greater souls than thou.'
For in the morn of my years there came a woman
As moonlight calling,
As the moon calleth the tides,
'Song, a song.'
Wherefore I made her a song and she went from me
As the moon doth from the sea,
But still came the leaf words, little brown elf words
Stying 'The soul sendeth us'.
'A song, a song!'
And in vain I cried unto them ‘I have no song
For she I sang of hath gone from me'.
But my soul sent a woman, a woman of the wonder-folk,
A woman as fire upon the pine woods
crying 'Song, a song'.
As the flame crieth unto the sap.
My song was ablaze with her and she went from me
As flame leaveth the embers so went she unto new forests '
And the words were with me
crying ever. 'Song, a song'.
And I 'I have no song',
Till my soul sent a woman as the sun:
Yea as the sun calleth to the seed,
As the spring upon the bough
So is she that cometh, the mother of songs,
She that holdeth the wonder words within her eyes
The words, little elf words
that call ever unto me,
'Song, a song'.
In vain have I striven with my soul
to teach my soul to bow.
What soul boweth
while in his heart art thou?
poem by Ezra Pound
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The Poet And The Children
LONGFELLOW.
WITH a glory of winter sunshine
Over his locks of gray,
In the old historic mansion
He sat on his last birthday;
With his books and his pleasant pictures,
And his household and his kin,
While a sound as of myriads singing
From far and near stole in.
It came from his own fair city,
From the prairie's boundless plain,
From the Golden Gate of sunset,
And the cedarn woods of Maine.
And his heart grew warm within him,
And his moistening eyes grew dim,
For he knew that his country's children
Were singing the songs of him,
The lays of his life's glad morning,
The psalms of his evening time,
Whose echoes shall float forever
On the winds of every clime.
All their beautiful consolations,
Sent forth like birds of cheer,
Came flocking back to his windows,
And sang in the Poet's ear.
Grateful, but solemn and tender,
The music rose and fell
With a joy akin to sadness
And a greeting like farewell.
With a sense of awe he listened
To the voices sweet and young;
The last of earth and the first of heaven
Seemed in the songs they sung.
And waiting a little longer
For the wonderful change to come,
He heard the Summoning Angel,
Who calls God's children home!
And to him in a holier welcome
Was the mystical meaning given
Of the words of the blessed Master
'Of such is the kingdom of heaven!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Mystic’s Christmas
'All hail!' the bells of Christmas rang,
'All hail!' the monks at Christmas sang,
The merry monks who kept with cheer
The gladdest day of all their year.
But still apart, unmoved thereat,
A pious elder brother sat
Silent, in his accustomed place,
With God's sweet peace upon his face.
'Why sitt'st thou thus?' his brethren cried.
'It is the blessed Christmas-tide;
The Christmas lights are all aglow,
The sacred lilies bud and blow.
'Above our heads the joy-bells ring,
Without the happy children sing,
And all God's creatures hail the morn
On which the holy Christ was born!
'Rejoice with us; no more rebuke
Our gladness with thy quiet look.'
The gray monk answered: 'Keep, I pray,
Even as ye list, the Lord's birthday.
'Let heathen Yule fires flicker red
Where thronged refectory feasts are spread;
With mystery-play and masque and mime
And wait-songs speed the holy time!
'The blindest faith may haply save;
The Lord accepts the things we have;
And reverence, howsoe'er it strays,
May find at last the shining ways.
'They needs must grope who cannot see,
The blade before the ear must be;
As ye are feeling I have felt,
And where ye dwell I too have dwelt.
'But now, beyond the things of sense,
Beyond occasions and events,
I know, through God's exceeding grace,
Release from form and time and place.
'I listen, from no mortal tongue,
To hear the song the angels sung;
And wait within myself to know
The Christmas lilies bud and blow.
'The outward symbols disappear
From him whose inward sight is clear;
And small must be the choice of clays
To him who fills them all with praise!
'Keep while you need it, brothers mine,
With honest zeal your Christmas sign,
But judge not him who every morn
Feels in his heart the Lord Christ born!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Dirge
Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?
In the long sunny afternoon,
The plain was full of ghosts,
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.
The winding Concord gleamed below,
Pouring as wide a flood
As when my brothers long ago,
Came with me to the wood.
But they are gone,— the holy ones,
Who trod with me this lonely vale,
The strong, star-bright companions
Are silent, low, and pale.
My good, my noble, in their prime,
Who made this world the feast it was,
Who learned with me the lore of time,
Who loved this dwelling-place.
They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood,
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,
They treated nature as they would.
They colored the horizon round,
Stars flamed and faded as they bade,
All echoes hearkened for their sound,
They made the woodlands glad or mad.
I touch this flower of silken leaf
Which once our childhood knew
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief
Whose balsam never grew.
Hearken to yon pine warbler
Singing aloft in the tree;
Hearest thou, O traveller!
What he singeth to me?
Not unless God made sharp thine ear
With sorrow such as mine,
Out of that delicate lay couldst thou
The heavy dirge divine.
Go, lonely man, it saith,
They loved thee from their birth,
Their hands were pure, and pure their faith,
There are no such hearts on earth.
Ye drew one mother's milk,
One chamber held ye all;
A very tender history
Did in your childhood fall.
Ye cannot unlock your heart,
The key is gone with them;
The silent organ loudest chants
The master's requiem.
poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
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To A Mother The Son Does Not Grow Adult
Mother, is the living shrine,
To her eye the son remains ever green,
Whole the world is aware of the son,
The mother’s eye never transforms from the morn.
The son stations to adult hood,
He gets equipped with different moods,
He learns the black art of daily change,
He experiences the relation-mystery widening his range.
The mother’s dictionary reads only the baby innocent,
For she gets wrapped in her feelings essence,
She finds no fault with the boy,
And sees him playing with childhood toy.
To a son the mother remains as an oasis,
In his good and evil she remains as a spontaneous bliss.
For, from her being the son comes on the earth,
Learns her smile, her words, and life’s rope with fountain mirth.
When the son feels sorrow the mother cries,
In son’s evil days, with all her soothing she tries,
Her heart and mind like fresh wind, find passage to son’s wellbeing,
She is the earthly goddess, the divine image, life’s rarest thing.
poem by Subrata Ray
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Unto You This Night
On a night so long ago
By the light of one bright star
Two weary travelers far from galilee
Took refuge in a stable
Where a little child was born
To bring the gift of love to you and me
When the angels told the shepherds of his birth
There came a great rejoicing on the earth
Chorus:
And they sang glory to God in the highest
Dawning that first christmas morn
Peace on earth and ridings of great joy
For unto you this night a child is born
And, lo, these many years since then
That ancient star still guides us
And now again our christmas voices ring
Blessed we are and safe at home
With loved ones her beside us
And in the still and silent night we sing
How the angels told the shepherds of his birth
And there came a great rejoicing on the earth
Repeat chorus:
song performed by by Garth Brooks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Ferdinand Seymour
ROSY child, with forehead fair,
Coral lip, and shining hair,
In whose mirthful, clever eyes
Such a world of gladness lies;
As thy loose curls idly straying
O'er thy mother's cheek, while playing,
Blend her soft lock's shadowy twine
With the glittering light of thine,--
Who shall say, who gazes now,
Which is fairest, she or thou?
In sweet contrast are ye met,
Such as heart could ne'er forget:
Thou art brilliant as a flower,
Crimsoning in the sunny hour;
Merry as a singing-bird,
In the green wood sweetly heard;
Restless as if fluttering wings
Bore thee on thy wanderings;
Ignorant of all distress,
Full of childhood's carelessness.
She is gentle; she hath known
Something of the echoed tone
Sorrow leaves, where'er it goes,
In this world of many woes.
On her brow such shadows are
As the faint cloud gives the star,
Veiling its most holy light,
Tho' it still be pure and bright;
And the colour in her cheek
To the hue on thine is weak,
Save when flush'd with sweet surprise,
Sudden welcomes light her eyes;
And her softly chisel'd face
(But for living, moving grace)
Looks like one of those which beam
In th' Italian painter's dream,--
Some beloved Madonna, bending
O'er the infant she is tending;
Holy, bright, and undefiled
Mother of the Heaven-born child;
Who, tho' painted strangely fair,
Seems but made for holy prayer,
Pity, tears, and sweet appeal,
And fondness such as angels feel;
Baffling earthly passion's sigh
With serenest majesty!
Oh! may those enshrouded years
Whose fair dawn alone appears,--
May that brightly budding life,
Knowing yet not sin nor strife,--
Bring its store of hoped-for joy,
Mother, to thy laughing boy!
And the good thou dost impart
Lies deep-treasured in his heart,
That, when he at length shall strive
In the bad world where we live,
THY sweet name may still be blest
As one who taught his soul true rest!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Flower God, God Of The Spring
FLOWER god, god of the spring, beautiful, bountiful,
Cold-dyed shield in the sky, lover of versicles,
Here I wander in April
Cold, grey-headed; and still to my
Heart, Spring comes with a bound, Spring the deliverer,
Spring, song-leader in woods, chorally resonant;
Spring, flower-planter in meadows,
Child-conductor in willowy
Fields deep dotted with bloom, daisies and crocuses:
Here that child from his heart drinks of eternity:
O child, happy are children!
She still smiles on their innocence,
She, dear mother in God, fostering violets,
Fills earth full of her scents, voices and violins:
Thus one cunning in music
Wakes old chords in the memory:
Thus fair earth in the Spring leads her performances.
One more touch of the bow, smell of the virginal
Green - one more, and my bosom
Feels new life with an ecstasy.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Life Songs
When a child is born into this world,
what kind of song will his or her life be?
A song of joy?
A song of hope?
A beautiful rhapsody?
One of sadness, or of grief?
A song of misery?
When a newborn cries and opens its eyes,
what will its song be?
A song of greatness, a song of wealth,
or one of poverty?
When trouble comes, and surely it will,
what will that child's song be?
When we are born our song begins
and we enjoy its pleasant tune.
We sing its melody in the innocence
that leaves us all too soon.
As we grow we hear the songs of
people in various places.
Songs of pride, songs of hatred
and of conflict among the races.
The songs of children playing together
are very pleasing to hear.
Regardless of race, status or color,
their sweet songs don't cause fear.
The Master told us that with childlike qualities
we'll see God's heavenly city.
To miss such a goal because of hearts so cold
would be a tragic pity.
We hear life songs every day and
like smoke they fade away.
But lives that are sung with childlike meekness
will 'inherit the earth' someday.
To sing a song of wonder and worth
is how this life should really be-
with all the innocents throughout the earth
and with love as our constant key.
When a child is born into this world,
what kind of song will his or her life be?
A song of joy?
A song of hope?
A beautiful rhapsody?
****************
Matthew 18: 3
****************
poem by C.F. Wilkins
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Mary's Boy Child
Long time ago in Bethlehem
So the Holy Bible say
Mary's Boy Child, Jesus Christ
Was born on Christmas Day
Hark, now hear the angels sing
"New King's born today
And man will live forevermore
Because of Christmas Day."
Joseph and his wife Mary
Came to Bethlehem that night
They found no place to bear her Child
Not a single room in sight
Trumpets sound and angels sing
Listen to what they say
That man will live forevermore
Because of Christmas Day
By and by they found a little nook
In a stable all forlorn
And in a manger cold and dark
Mary's little Boy was born
Hark, now hear the angels sing,
"New King's born today
And man will live forevermore
Because of Christmas Day."
Trumpets sound and angels sing
Listen to what they say
That man will live forevermore
Because of Christmas Day
Because of Christmas Day
O Holy night the stars are brightly shining
It is the night of our dear Savior's birth
Long lay the world in sin and error pining
Til He appeared and the soul felt its worth
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn
Fall on your knees
O hear the angel voices
O night divine!
O night when Christ was born
O night divine!
O night, O night divine!
O night, hear the angel sing
That man will live forevermore
Because of Christmas Day
That man will live forevermore
Because of Christmas Day
song performed by by Vanessa Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Elegy on the Death of a Child
Fair was thy blossom, tender flower,
That open'd like the rose in May,
Though nursed beneath the chilly shower
Of fell regret, for love's decay.
How oft thy mother heaved the sigh
O'er wreaths of honour early shorn,
Before thy sweet and guiltless eye
Had open'd on the dawn of morn!
How oft, above thy lowly bed,
When all in silence slumber'd low,
The fond and filial tear was shed,
Thou child of love, of shame, and woe!
Her wrong'd but gentle bosom burn'd
With joy thy opening bloom to see;
The only breast that o'er thee yearn'd;
The only heart that cared for thee.
Oft her young eye, with tear-drops bright,
Pleaded with Heaven for her sweet child,
When faded dreams of past delight
O'er recollection wander'd wild.
Fair was thy blossom, bonnie flower,
Fair as the softest wreaths of spring,
When late I saw thee seek the bower
In peace thy morning hymn to sing.
Thy little foot across the lawn
Scarce from the primrose press'd the dew;
I thought the spirit of the dawn
Before me to the greenwood flew.
E'en then the shaft was on the wing,
Thy spotless soul from earth to sever,
A tear of pity wet the string
That twang'd, and seal'd thy doom for ever.
I saw thee late, the emblem fair
Of beauty, innocence, and truth,
Start tiptoe on the verge of air,
'Twixt childhood and unstable youth;
But now I see thee stretch'd at rest:
To break that rest shall wake no morrow -
Pale as the grave-flower on thy breast!
Poor child of love, of shame, and sorrow!
May thy long sleep be sound and sweet;
Thy visions fraught with bliss to be;
And long the daisy, emblem meet,
Shall shed its earliest tear o'er thee!
poem by James Hogg
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Mary
DEAR honored name, beloved for human ties,
But loved and honored first that One was given
In living proof to erring mortal eyes
That our poor earth is near akin to heaven.
Sweet word of dual meaning: one of grace,
And born of our kind advocate above;
And one by memory linked to that dear face
That blessed my childhood with its mother-love,
And taught me first the simple prayer, 'To thee,
Poor banished sons of Eve, we send our cries.'
Through mist of years, those words recall to me
A childish face upturned to loving eyes.
And yet to some the name of Mary bears
No special meaning and no gracious power;
In that dear word they seek for hidden snares,
As wasps find poison in the sweetest flower.
But faithful hearts can see, o'er doubts and fears,
The Virgin link that binds the Lord to earth;
Which to the upturned trusting face appears
A more than angel, though of human birth.
The sweet-faced moon reflects on cheerless night
The rays of hidden sun to rise to-morrow;
So unseen God still lets His promised light,
Through holy Mary, shine upon our sorrow.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Teachers
I met a woman long ago
Her hair the black that black can go
Are you a teacher of the heart
Soft she answered no.
I met a girl across the sea
Her hair the gold that gold can be
Are you a teacher of the heart
Yes but not for thee.
I met a man who lost his mind
In some lost place I had to find
Follow me the wise man said
But he walked behind.
I walked into a hospital
Where none was sick and none was well
When at night the nurses left
I could not walk at all.
Morning came
And then came noon
Dinner time the scalpel blade
Lay beside my silver spoon
Some girls wander by mistake
Into the mess that scalpels make
Are you the teachers of my heart
We teach old hearts to break.
One morning I woke up alone
The hospital, the nurses gone
Have I carved enough, my lord
Child, you are bone.
I ate and ate and ate,
No, I did not miss a plate
Well, how much do these suppers cost
Well take it out in hate.
I spent my hatred every place
On every work on every face
Someone gave me wishes
And I wished for an embrace.
Several girls embraced me,
Then I was embraced by men
Is my passion perfect
No, do it once again.
I was handsome, I was strong
I knew the words of every song
Did my singing please you
No, the words you sang were wrong.
Who is it whom I address
Who takes down what I confess
Are you the teachers of my heart
We teach old hearts to rest.
Well, teachers are my lessons done
I cannot do another one
They laughed and laughed and said
Well, child are your lessons done.
Are your lessons done
Are your lessons done.
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Teachers
(leonard cohen)
I met a woman long ago
Her hair the black that black can go,
Are you a teacher of the heart?
Soft she answered no.
I met a girl across the sea,
Her hair the gold that gold can be,
Are you a teacher of the heart?
Yes, but not for thee.
I met a man who lost his mind
In some lost place I had to find,
Follow me the wise man said,
But he walked behind.
I walked into a hospital
Where none was sick and none was well,
When at night the nurses left
I could not walk at all.
Morning came and then came noon,
Dinner time a scalpel blade
Lay beside my silver spoon.
Some girls wander by mistake
Into the mess that scalpels make.
Are you the teachers of my heart?
We teach old hearts to break.
One morning I woke up alone,
The hospital and the nurses gone.
Have I carved enough my lord?
Child, you are a bone.
I ate and ate and ate,
No I did not miss a plate, well
How much do these suppers cost?
Well take it out in hate.
I spent my hatred everyplace,
On every work on every face,
Someone gave me wishes
And I wished for an embrace.
Several girls embraced me, then
I was embraced by men,
Is my passion perfect?
No, do it once again.
I was handsome I was strong,
I knew the words of every song.
Did my singing please you?
No, the words you sang were wrong.
Who is it whom I address,
Who takes down what I confess?
Are you the teachers of my heart?
We teach old hearts to rest.
Oh teachers are my lessons done?
I cannot do another one.
They laughed and laughed and said, well child,
Are your lessons done?
Are your lessons done?
Are your lessons done?
song performed by by 16 Horsepower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Changing Hearts
Hard hearts of the human race, desperately in need of God’s Grace,
Not compelled by God’s Truth at all, from being tainted by man’s fall.
The natural mind cannot conceive, Truths from God that we believe,
They don’t look beyond the earth, never experiencing a spiritual birth.
It’s Christ’s Spirit who opens eyes, of those men believed to be wise,
Spiritually blinded by God’s enemy, who preys on hearts relentlessly.
Causing those who are spiritually blind, to close both heart and mind,
To the Eternal things of God above, causing them to refuse His Love.
The Spirit sheds light upon the dark, opening up their mind and heart,
God frees men from earthly creeds, directing hearts to eternal needs.
Through the Spirit of Jesus Christ, some begin reflecting on their life,
Where they will be when life is done, if they finish without God’s Son.
The Christ who came to earth to die, to give life meaning to you and I,
And give a Hope to all who believe; lead by The Spirit they do receive.
Christ leaves it up to men to herald, The Eternal Truth to all the world,
With The Holy Spirit far in the lead, helping many to hear and to heed.
The Holy Spirit truly changes men, in ways that we can’t comprehend,
Even the most darkened of hearts, is moved by Truth that He imparts.
They believe and become born again, to live their lives as Godly men,
Being born anew, from God above, they spiritually grow in God’s Love.
Remember Me, The Child! Michael Jackson: In His Own Words!
Remember me, the child!
Look past the man, deep into the innocence of my eyes
A towering giant of a man before I was grown
Still, searching for the childhood I have never known
Have you seen my childhood, the innocence of my age?
Remember me, the child! A life devoid of its shade!
Remember me, the child!
The child, forced to grow up long before his time
The evil had landed; life, I was outdone
Haunted by the image of the man I have become
A life less wanted, with an ever mounting cost
Remember me, the child! I tried to beat it, but lost
Remember me, the child!
Follow on this journey into the mystery of my life
Dark shadows and buried secrets, controversies reigned
Unable to grow up, mines was more of torture, and pains
Enslaved by the demands of a vindictive ideal
Remember me, the child! The horrors of my ordeal!
Remember me, the child!
A thriller of epic melodies, I sang the songs of life
I danced my way into hearts with a musical rage
Transcended every border, the world was my stage
I bridged the racial, cultural divide, my talent defined me
Remember me, the child! The music, my legacy!
Remember me, the child!
Look past the image, into the innocence of my eyes
Walk with me in an adventure down memory lane
See what it costs to wear the honor of my name
I may be bad, with an attitude, still, I am who I am
Remember me, the child! The legacy, the man!
Remember me, the child!
Like a burnt of flame, there is no more light
The journey has ended, it took flight with wings
In the twinkling of an eye, gone with the wind
The blossom is no longer a flowering bloom
Remember me, the child! Sadly, gone too soon!
To Her Whose Name
To her whose name,
With its sweet sibilant sound like sudden showers
Splashing the grass and flowers,
Hath set my April heart aflame;
To her whose face,
The flower and crown of all created things,
Dearer than even Spring's,
Hath been to me a sacrament of grace;
Whose luminous mind,
Stored with all gladness of the earth and sky,
Hath lightened my sad eye
And made it wise in love which erst was blind;
Whose voice of pleasure,
Calling to joys as a blithe wedding bell
When ringers ring it well,
Hath tuned my soul to its own happy measure;
Whose blessed hand,
With its white mystery of fingers five,
Each one a soul alive,
Hath taught me truths no angels understand;
Whose arms within,
Should she once clasp me to her very heart,
God knoweth we should not part
But live for aye in Heaven's own bliss divine;
To her, alas,
Who is so near, yet standeth still so far,
Seeing the mortal bar
Betwixt us ever which we cannot pass,
These lines I send
With my heart's tears to--night beseeching her,
Of her dear love more dear,
To be no less to me my sweetest soul and friend.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dad's Lessons Passed On
He was not filthy rich
But had the depth of knowledge
That he had blessed me with
To face my trials with great courage.
Dad taught me the love for books
A quiet spirit in times of strife
All those years his lesson took
Me through the hardships of my life.
Teach a child the wealth of reading
To feed his mind, keep him from trouble
Values learned he will be using
To grow up wise and be responsible.
Dad's lessons I now try to teach
On the next in line there to impart
My children know their goals to reach
By keeping his lessons in their heart.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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