To James Freeman Clarke
I BRING the simplest pledge of love,
Friend of my earlier days;
Mine is the hand without the glove,
The heart-beat, not the phrase.
How few still breathe this mortal air
We called by school-boy names!
You still, whatever robe you wear,
To me are always James.
That name the kind apostle bore
Who shames the sullen creeds,
Not trusting less, but loving more,
And showing faith by deeds.
What blending thoughts our memories share!
What visions yours and mine
Of May-days in whose morning air
The dews were golden wine,
Of vistas bright with opening day,
Whose all-awakening sun
Showed in life's landscape, far away,
The summits to be won!
The heights are gained. Ah, say not so
For him who smiles at time,
Leaves his tired comrades down below,
And only lives to climb!
His labors,--will they ever cease,--
With hand and tongue and pen?
Shall wearied Nature ask release
At threescore years and ten?
Our strength the clustered seasons tax,--
For him new life they mean;
Like rods around the lictor's axe
They keep him bright and keen.
The wise, the brave, the strong, we know,--
We mark them here or there,
But he,--we roll our eyes, and lo!
We find him everywhere!
With truth's bold cohorts, or alone,
He strides through error's field;
His lance is ever manhood's own,
His breast is woman's shield.
Count not his years while earth has need
Of souls that Heaven inflames
With sacred zeal to save, to lead,--
Long live our dear Saint James!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Bill and Joe
COME, dear old comrade, you and I
Will steal an hour from days gone by,
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright with morning dew,
The lusty days of long ago,
When you were Bill and I was Joe.
Your name may flaunt a titled trail
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail,
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare;
To-day, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe and you are Bill.
You've won the great world's envied prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,
With H O N. and L L. D.
In big brave letters, fair to see,--
Your fist, old fellow! off they go!--
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?
You've worn the judge's ermined robe;
You've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a deathless strain;
You've made the dead past live again:
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.
The chaffing young folks stare and say
"See those old buffers, bent and gray,--
They talk like fellows in their teens
Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means,"--
And shake their heads; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe!--
How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,--
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.
Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame?
A fitful tongue of leaping flame;
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill and which was Joe?
The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go,--
How vain it seems, this empty show!
Till all at once his pulses thrill;--
'T is poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!"
And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears;
In some sweet lull of harp and song
For earth-born spirits none too long,
Just whispering of the world below
Where this was Bill and that was Joe?
No matter; while our home is here
No sounding name is half so dear;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say?
Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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To Sylvia
O Sylvia, dost thou remember still
That period of thy mortal life,
When beauty so bewildering
Shone in thy laughing, glancing eyes,
As thou, so merry, yet so wise,
Youth's threshold then wast entering?
How did the quiet rooms,
And all the paths around,
With thy perpetual song resound,
As thou didst sit, on woman's work intent,
Abundantly content
With the vague future, floating on thy mind!
Thy custom thus to spend the day
In that sweet time of youth and May!
How could I, then, at times,
In those fair days of youth,
The only happy days I ever knew,
My hard tasks dropping, or my careless rhymes,
My station take, on father's balcony,
And listen to thy voice's melody,
And watch thy hands, as they would deftly fly
O'er thy embroidery!
I gazed upon the heaven serene,
The sun-lit paths, the orchards green,
The distant mountain here,
And there, the far-off sea.
Ah, mortal tongue cannot express
What then I felt of happiness!
What gentle thoughts, what hopes divine,
What loving hearts, O Sylvia mine!
In what bright colors then portrayed
Were human life and fate!
Oh, when I think of such fond hopes betrayed,
A feeling seizes me
Of bitterness and misery,
And tenfold is my grief renewed!
O Nature, why this treachery?
Why thus, with broken promises,
Thy children's hearts delude?
Thou, ere the grass was touched with winter's frost,
By fell disease attacked and overcome,
O tender plant, didst die!
The flower of thy days thou ne'er didst see;
Nor did thy soft heart move
Now of thy raven locks the tender praise,
Now of thy eyes, so loving and so shy;
Nor with thee, on the holidays,
Did thy companions talk of love.
So perished, too, erelong,
My own sweet hope;
So too, unto my years
Did Fate their youth deny.
Alas, alas the day,
Lamented hope, companion dear,
How hast thou passed away!
Is _this_ that world? These the delights,
The love, the labors, the events,
Of which we once so fondly spoke?
And must _all_ mortals wear this weary yoke?
Ah, when the truth appeared,
It better seemed to die!
Cold death, the barren tomb, didst thou prefer
To harsh reality.
poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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Old Friends Of Mine
The songs they were singing from the golden days of our spring. When laughter rang out from those old friend of mine.
Where have they gone in the passing of time, and where are they now those old friends of mine.
The years have clouded the memories of them. The grey hairs are showing, how long has it been?
Oh where did they go? The friends of my youth. The flames of a young life and the passions we knew.
The days are shorter. Life still goes on. Our children are playing like we used to do.
Will they remember the friends of their youth when they get our age in their September song?
Oh where have they now those old friends of mine?
31 Dec 1995
poem by David Harris
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Sonnet X. To Mrs. G
AH! why will Mem'ry with officious care
The long lost visions of my days renew?
Why paint the vernal landscape green and fair,
When life's gay dawn was opening to my view?
Ah! wherefore bring those moments of delight,
When with my Anna, on the southern shore,
I thought the future, as the present bright?
Ye dear delusions!--ye return no more!
Alas! how diff'rent does the truth appear,
From the warm picture youth's rash hand portrays!
How fades the scene, as we approach it near,
And pain and sorrow strike--how many ways!
Yet of that tender heart, ah! still retain
A share for me--and I will not complain!
poem by Charlotte Smith
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The Return Of Youth
My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime,
For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight;
Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time
Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light,--
Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong,
And quick the thought that moved thy tongue to speak,
And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong
Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek.
Thou lookest forward on the coming days,
Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep;
A path, thick-set with changes and decays,
Slopes downward to the place of common sleep;
And they who walked with thee in life's first stage,
Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near,
Thou seest the sad companions of thy age--
Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear.
Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone,
Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die.
Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn,
Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky;
Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides,
Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour;
Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides
Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower.
There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand
On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet
Than when at first he took thee by the hand,
Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet.
He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still,
Life's early glory to thine eyes again,
Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill
Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.
Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here,
Of mountains where immortal morn prevails?
Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear
A gentle rustling of the morning gales;
A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore,
Of streams that water banks for ever fair,
And voices of the loved ones gone before,
More musical in that celestial air?
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Two Easter Stanzas
I
The Hope of the Resurrection
Though I have watched so many mourners weep
O’er the real dead, in dull earth laid asleep—
Those dead seemed but the shadows of my days
That passed and left me in the sun’s bright rays.
Now though you go on smiling in the sun
Our love is slain, and love and you were one.
You are the first, you I have known so long,
Whose death was deadly, a tremendous wrong.
Therefore I seek the faith that sets it right
Amid the lilies and the candle-light.
I think on Heaven, for in that air so clear
We two may meet, confused and parted here.
Ah, when man’s dearest dies, ’tis then he goes
To that old balm that heals the centuries’ woes.
Then Christ’s wild cry in all the streets is rife:—
“I am the Resurrection and the Life.”
II
We meet at the Judgment and I fear it Not
Though better men may fear that trumpet’s warning,
I meet you, lady, on the Judgment morning,
With golden hope my spirit still adorning.
Our God who made you all so fair and sweet
Is three times gentle, and before his feet
Rejoicing I shall say:— “The girl you gave
Was my first Heaven, an angel bent to save.
Oh, God, her maker, if my ingrate breath
Is worth this rescue from the Second Death,
Perhaps her dear proud eyes grow gentler too
That scorned my graceless years and trophies few.
Gone are those years, and gone ill-deeds that turned
Her sacred beauty from my songs that burned.
We now as comrades through the stars may take
The rich and arduous quests I did forsake.
Grant me a seraph-guide to thread the throng
And quickly find that woman-soul so strong.
I dream that in her deeply-hidden heart
Hurt love lived on, though we were far apart,
A brooding secret mercy like your own
That blooms to-day to vindicate your throne.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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At A Birthday Festival
TO J. R. LOWELL
WE will not speak of years to-night,--
For what have years to bring
But larger floods of love and light,
And sweeter songs to sing?
We will not drown in wordy praise
The kindly thoughts that rise;
If Friendship own one tender phrase,
He reads it in our eyes.
We need not waste our school-boy art
To gild this notch of Time;--
Forgive me if my wayward heart
Has throbbed in artless rhyme.
Enough for him the silent grasp
That knits us hand in hand,
And he the bracelet's radiant clasp
That locks our circling band.
Strength to his hours of manly toil!
Peace to his starlit dreams!
Who loves alike the furrowed soil,
The music-haunted streams!
Sweet smiles to keep forever bright
The sunshine on his lips,
And faith that sees the ring of light
Round nature's last eclipse!
February 22, 1859.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Woman Of The Wise
I hear your words from down the years
Old woman of the wise.
Since last we met, I've had my share
Of laughter and of tears.
My mind when still, will enter space
Wherein you counselled me.
' Discretion is of valour best'
I clearly see your face,
Those words you uttered long ago,
Still live with me always,
And as I have quested o'er the years
I now know that they are so.
Now I plough my furrows deep and long
Always to myself be true.
I remember as I walk through life,
How you taught me to be strong.
You showed me how to shine my light.
No anger or judgment hold,
I've come to live this concept true,
For justice alone to fight.
Only in our own truth can we stand,
And our lives for ourselves, must we lead.
So I'm true to myself and the Universe wide,
Still to others I hold out a hand.
poem by Rosi Caswell
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Nostalgic Memories of Doctors
We met; we read and played in one college;
We were so lucky to be Stanleans!
Those were the pleasant days, we can’t forget;
The nostalgic memories are evergreen!
But that was more than four decades ago!
The 'flock that grazed the Stanley lawns' was big;
Today, the size has come down by a third;
Some wonderful souls have perished and gone.
The landscape seems so changed though earth remains;
Some trees are gone while others appear cut;
New ones are growing rather very fast!
The air is diff’rent but our thoughts are same.
We miss the ones who are not live today;
Some were stalwarts and doyens, teachers great;
Some sacrificed their lives for patients' sake,
While others taught their students to do feats.
To some life’s journey on earth is over;
To some, the road traveled nears to an end;
To some, their count-down seems to have begun;
Nevertheless, our life was something great.
Those days will never come back- we all know;
The thoughts of yester-years- we will cherish;
We live with hope renewed in years to come,
And do our duty until we vanish!
Today, our hearts have emotions mixed;
Anguish because some loved ones are no more;
And joy because many are living still,
And hope because some years more lie ahead.
This is the way our life on earth goes on;
We take new lanes but share a common aim;
Though some excelled the others in this race,
God knows how each one played the game of Life!
Today, the remnant members meet and pray,
'God give eternal rest to souls that left,
And some more useful years for those alive,
To serve the sick and dying, suff'ring, souls! '
We are the lucky survivors today!
Our past looks great; our future is more so;
We want to leave our footprints on Time's sands
-Indelible for progeny always!
We thank Thee Lord for all our happiness;
We thank Thee God for strength of heart and will;
We thank Thee Lord for blessings Thou didst give;
We thank Thee God for making us Doctors!
poem by John Celes
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The School Days are near!
Same shrieking morning alarms,
Same morning fear!
The school days are near, The school days are near!
Sleeping in the bathroom,
From out, Mom shouts, '' DO YOU EVEN HEAR? ''
The school days are near, The school days are near!
So drowsy I am,
Confused, don't know what to wear!
The school days are near, The school days are near!
And entered into the school,
Murmuring silently, '' Oh dear! Oh dear! ''
The school days are near, the school days are near!
And if the first period is Maths,
Not again those equations linear! !
The school days are near, the school days are near!
A look at the load of books,
From the corner of my eye drops a tear!
The school days are near, the school days are near!
Gosh! When will vacations come?
We'll have to wait an year!
The school days are near, the school days are near!
Hoping when we go,
We'll find joy, sheer!
The school days are near, The school days are near! ! : D
poem by HudaM DeGratePoet
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The Hand That Rocks The Cradle
Please dont cry
For the ghost and the storm outside
Will not invade this sacred shrine
Nor infiltrate your mind
My life down I shall lie
If the bogey-man should try
To play tricks on your sacred mind
To tease, torment, and tantalise
Wavering shadows loom
A piano plays in an empty room
Therell be blood on the cleaver tonight
And when darknesss lifts and the room is bright
Ill still be by your side
For you are all that matters
And Ill love you to till the day I die
There never need be longing in your eyes
As long as the hand that rocks the cradle is mine
Ceiling shadows shimmy by
And when the wardrobe towers like a beast of prey
Theres sadness in your beautiful eyes
Oh, your untouched, unsoiled, wonderous eyes
My life down I shall lie
Should restless spirits try
To play tricks on your sacred mind
I once had a child, and it saved my life
And I never even asked his name
I just looked into his wondrous eyes
And said : never never never again
And all too soon I did return
Just like a moth to a flame
So rattle my bones all over the stones
Im only a beggar-man whom nobody owns
Oh, see how words as old as sin
Fit me like a glove
Im here and here Ill stay
Together we lie, together we pray
There never need be longing in your eyes
As long as the hand that rocks the cradle is mine
As long as the hand that rocks the cradle is mine
Mine
Climb up on my knee, sonny boy
Although youre only three, sonny boy
Youre - youre mine
And your mother she just never knew
Oh, your mother ...
As long ... as long ... as long
I did my best for her
I did my best for her
As long ... as long ... as long as ... as long
I did my best for her
I did my best for her
Oh ...
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To H.a.b. On My Forty-seventh Birthday
WHEN one is forty years and seven,
Is seven and forty sad years old,
He looks not onward for his Heaven,
The future is too blank and cold,
Its pale flowers smell of graveyard mould;
He looks back to his lifeful past;
If age is silver, youth is gold:-
Could youth but last, could youth but last!
He turns back toward his youthful past
A-throb with life and love and hope,
Whose long-dead joys in memory last,
Whose shining days had ample scope;
He turns and lingers on the slope
Whose dusk leads down to sightless death:-
The sun once crowned that darkening cope,
And song once thrilled this weary breath.
Ali, he plods wearily to death,
Adown the gloaming into night,
But other lives breathe joyous breath
In morning's boundless golden light;
Their feet are swift, their eyes are bright,
Their hearts beat rhythms of hope and love,
Their being is a pure delight
In earth below and heaven above.
And you have hope and joy and love,
And you have youth's abounding life,
Whose crystal currents flow above
The stones and sands of care and strife.
May all your years with joys be rifc,
May you grow calmly to your prime,
A maiden sweet, a cherished wife,
A happy mother in due time.
All good you wish me, past my prime,
I wish with better hope to you,
And richer blessings than old Time
And Fate or Fortune found my due:
For you are kind and good and true,
And so when you are forty-seven
May spouse and children in your view
Make Home the happiest life-long Heaven.
poem by James Thomson
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The World You Live In
Joe and suzie melson
May the world you live in bring the good life
That grows sweeter as it mellows with time
May the world you live in be a world love lives in
A love like your love and mine
May the children you bear bring contentment
As you guide them with your gentle hand
May you know all the things true love can bring
Between a woman and a man
May the dreams that you build always be filled
Keep the love shining in your eyes
If the bad times or the sad times ever come to you
Let this man be the one that you always turn to
May the seasons of your life touch you gently
And may happiness you always find
May these arms that surround you always be around you
And the world that you live in forever be mine
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dead Leaves
When these dead leaves were green, love,
November's skies were blue,
And summer came with lips aflame,
The gentle spring to woo;
And to us, wandering hand in hand,
Life was a fairy scene,
That golden morning in the woods
When these dead leaves were green!
How dream-like now that dewy morn,
Sweet with the wattle's flowers,
When love, love, love was all our theme,
And youth and hope were ours!
Two happier hearts in all the land
There were not then, I ween,
Than those young lovers' -- yours and mine --
When these dead leaves were green.
How gaily did you pluck these leaves
From the acacia's bough,
To mark the lyric we had read --
I can repeat it now!
While came the words, like music sweet,
Your smiling lips between --
"So fold my love within your heart,"
When these dead leaves were green!
How many springs have passed since then?
Ah, wherefore should we count,
The years that sped, like waters fled
From Time's unstaying fount?
We've had our share of happiness,
Our share of care have seen;
But love alone has never flown
Since these dead leaves were green.
Your heart is kind and loving still,
Your face to me as fair,
As when, that morn, the sunshine played
Amid your golden hair.
So, dearest, sweethearts still we'll be,
As we have ever been,
And keep our love as fresh and true
As when these leaves were green.
poem by Edward Booth Loughran
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Written Somewhere (Mini Biography)
My friends are strangers
My family is the world
At one time, I sought fame
Everyone to know my name
Praise for what I did
But as the years came around
No fame there was to be found
So I turned my back on it all
Feeling crushed and insignificantly small
Years folded into one another
And soon became a score
Still I had no wish to return
To find the fame that I so yearned
But fate had a hand for me to play
It said you still had something more to say
An old school friend from a different time
Was sent one day when I was down
To reconnect and turn my life around
At first it did not dawn on me
That our meeting was meant to be
And my life was to change so dramatically
We talked through emails
About the lives, we had both lead
Suzanne said she had a friend and told me her name
That I should read her poems online
That friend, Melvina Germain, would also become a friend of mine
And set me on a return road of an earlier time
I joined the site where her poems were
And in a few short months, I was overwhelmed
I had something I had always dreamed for
I had a family of the world
The fame I so dearly sought to find
Where friends came along and read the work of mine
It made my heart pump faster and put zest into my life again
I would never want for anything
I had all the friends and fame
I ever wanted and more
16 April 2007
poem by David Harris
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Golden Years
he finally reached his golden years
wanted to leave his family,
thoughts and love to share.
so he sat with pen in hand
wrote about his lifes plan.
it started off with just his dream
never expecting the unforseen.
as his plans began to unwind
he found himself lost in time.
he joined the army at an early age
this was to become the setting stage
he survived the street gangs and a war
and never talking about what he saw.
he managed retail businesses all his life
met the woman who would become his wife.
he had always loved children
so he thought it was time
his wife agreed and it turned out fine.
a beautiful little girl came into their life
and everything seemed twice as nice.
now he had two women who captured his heart
and knew right then, that this was the start.
the start to his golden years
with his wife he could share.
all the dreams that were meant to be
was now becoming a reality.
but the years was going by fast
he knew his dreams would not last.
now with this thought in mind
he decided it was time
to put his life in perspective
for the golden years to become effective.
so he changed his train of thoughts
a late retirement he would abort.
he retired before his time
so he could enjoy life the way
that it was meant to be
living happy and carefree.
now that he finished writing
down his thoughts and plans
he let them know
'YOUR PERCEPTION BECOMES YOUR REALITY'
and this is what mine was to me.
the golden years are now mine
and i'm lost in its time.
poem by Louis Rams
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When They Told Me He's Gone
When they told me he's gone!
Inside me storms begun to cry
Ah, passing time!
You always steal
away the same way!
Till the day
whatever you've stole from me
Never brought them back to me!
My most precious ones
Those who's heart
beats with mine were
always one
My laughter
My most valuable
years
Those who were so
dear
Ah. passing time!
You always hurt the same!
How many hurts are hidden there yet!
Once again you made my eyes tear
May never i'll meet his eyes again
And who knows what tomorrow brings?
Years are rolling down so fast
Just breathe away and life ends
While still I keep inside the memories of the past
All those memories are figured out here
The first time I met his eyes
His first glance
Our first dance
We were cradling upon angels wings
Over there in the paradise
Away from earthly eyes
With every breathe of love desires
Butterflies inside me gladly flied
When first time I met his eyes
Yet still I have inside
The memory of his touch
And my heart beats still howling sullen vain
The longing of his love still crying woes
While in his heart our love has became just a history
Ah, somehow an old memory?
Yet for me his memories still surviving right here
Still so clear
Every while and while they rurvive
They're always near
They're always dear
In the depth of my heart they've got tired of waiting
My love has got tired!
When they told me he's gone
While inside me gauzy storms began moaing dreary dirges
Still rending vainy surges
Yet, with them our memories are crying pale!
Every seed of love that from him was left behind
With memories shivering cried wreck
When they told me that he's gone away
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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To Harriet -- It Is Not Blasphemy To Hope That Heaven
It is not blasphemy to hope that Heaven
More perfectly will give those nameless joys
Which throb within the pulses of the blood
And sweeten all that bitterness which Earth
Infuses in the heaven-born soul. O thou
Whose dear love gleamed upon the gloomy path
Which this lone spirit travelled, drear and cold,
Yet swiftly leading to those awful limits
Which mark the bounds of Time and of the space
When Time shall be no more; wilt thou not turn
Those spirit-beaming eyes and look on me,
Until I be assured that Earth is Heaven,
And Heaven is Earth?--will not thy glowing cheek,
Glowing with soft suffusion, rest on mine,
And breathe magnetic sweetness through the frame
Of my corporeal nature, through the soul
Now knit with these fine fibres? I would give
The longest and the happiest day that fate
Has marked on my existence but to feel
ONE soul-reviving kiss...O thou most dear,
'Tis an assurance that this Earth is Heaven,
And Heaven the flower of that untainted seed
Which springeth here beneath such love as ours.
Harriet! let death all mortal ties dissolve,
But ours shall not be mortal! The cold hand
Of Time may chill the love of earthly minds
Half frozen now; the frigid intercourse
Of common souls lives but a summer's day;
It dies, where it arose, upon this earth.
But ours! oh, 'tis the stretch of Fancy's hope
To portray its continuance as now,
Warm, tranquil, spirit-healing; nor when age
Has tempered these wild ecstasies, and given
A soberer tinge to the luxurious glow
Which blazing on devotion's pinnacle
Makes virtuous passion supersede the power
Of reason; nor when life's aestival sun
To deeper manhood shall have ripened me;
Nor when some years have added judgement's store
To all thy woman sweetness, all the fire
Which throbs in thine enthusiast heart; not then
Shall holy friendship (for what other name
May love like ours assume?), not even then
Shall Custom so corrupt, or the cold forms
Of this desolate world so harden us,
As when we think of the dear love that binds
Our souls in soft communion, while we know
Each other's thoughts and feelings, can we say
Unblushingly a heartless compliment,
Praise, hate, or love with the unthinking world,
Or dare to cut the unrelaxing nerve
That knits our love to virtue. Can those eyes,
Beaming with mildest radiance on my heart
To purify its purity, e'er bend
To soothe its vice or consecrate its fears?
Never, thou second Self! Is confidence
So vain in virtue that I learn to doubt
The mirror even of Truth? Dark flood of Time,
Roll as it listeth thee; I measure not
By month or moments thy ambiguous course.
Another may stand by me on thy brink,
And watch the bubble whirled beyond his ken,
Which pauses at my feet. The sense of love,
The thirst for action, and the impassioned thought
Prolong my being; if I wake no more,
My life more actual living will contain
Than some gray veteran’s of the world's cold school,
Whose listless hours unprofitably roll
By one enthusiast feeling unredeemed,
Virtue and Love! unbending Fortitude,
Freedom, Devotedness and Purity!
That life my Spirit consecrates to you.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Good Old Man
"Children, you will soon lay me in the ground. Then you are to be cheerful, and drink some of this wine; for I have lived a joyful life before God all my days." (Life of Ernst Maurice Arndt. London. 1879. P. 38.)
The old man sate beside the fire,
His years fourscore and two,
His locks were thin and wintry-white,
But his eyes were bright and blue.
His children's children round him stood,
His face with joy did shine;
And he called for a glass, and placed on board
A pint of the ruby wine.
And he said, "Now list to me, brave boys:
I've lived a life, thank God!
Full of bright hours and happy days,
And soon beneath the sod
"Your hands must lay my head. This glass
I fill with thanks to Him
Who made my cup through fourscore years
With joy to overbrim.
"There might be clouds; but they have passed;
For this I surely knew,
Behind the clouds there dwelt a sun
And a dome of glorious blue.
"There might be frets; but not with me
Might fret and murmur dwell;
For God, I knew, was judge of all,
And still he judgeth well.
"Then fill the sparkling glass, brave boys,
And quaff the wine with me
His gift whence flows to men all light
And love and liberty!
"And keep a stout heart in your breast,
And trust in God, brave boys;
And march right forward without fear,
And evermore rejoice.
"And when you lay my head, brave boys,
Beneath the cool green sod,
Remember how I walked in strength
And joy before my God."
poem by John Stuart Blackie from Littell's Living Age, vol. 144
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Looking East
LITTLE white clouds, why are you flying
Over the sky so blue and cold?
Fair faint hopes, why are you lying
Over my heart like a white cloud's fold?
Slender green leaves, why are you peeping
Out of the ground where the snow yet lies?
Toying west wind, why are you creeping
Like a child's breath across my eyes?
Hope and terror by turns consuming,
Lover and friend put far from me,--
What should I do with the bright spring, coming
Like an angel over the sea?
Over the cruel sea that parted
Me from mine own, and rolls between;--
Out of the woful east, whence darted
Heaven's full quiver of vengeance keen.
Day teaches day, night whispers morning--
'Hundreds are weeping their dead, while thou
Weeping thy living--Rise, be adorning
Thy brows, unwidowed, with smiles.'--But how?
O, had he married me!--unto anguish,
Hardship, sickness, peril, and pain;
That on my breast his head might languish
In lonely jungle or scorching plain;
O, had we stood on some rampart gory,
Till he--ere Horror behind us trod--
Kissed me, and killed me--so, with his glory
My soul went happy and pure to God!
Nay, nay, Heaven pardon me! me, sick-hearted,
Living this long, long life-in-death:
Many there are far wider parted
Who under one roof-tree breathe one breath.
But we that loved--whom one word half broken
Had drawn together close soul to soul
As lip to lip--and it was not spoken,
Nor may be while the world's ages roll.
I sit me down with my tears all frozen:
I drink my cup, be it gall or wine:
For I know, if he lives, I am his chosen--
I know, if he dies, that he is mine.
If love in its silence be greater, stronger
Than million promises, sighs, or tears--
I will wait upon Him a little longer
Who holdeth the balance of our years.
Little white clouds, like angels flying,
Bring the spring with you across the sea--
Loving or losing, living or dying,
Lord, remember, remember me!
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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