Booker T. Washington
The word is writ that he who runs may read.
What is the passing breath of earthly fame?
But to snatch glory from the hands of blame--
That is to be, to live, to strive indeed.
A poor Virginia cabin gave the seed,
And from its dark and lowly door there came
A peer of princes in the world's acclaim,
A master spirit for the nation's need.
Strong, silent, purposeful beyond his kind,
The mark of rugged force on brow and lip,
Straight on he goes, nor turns to look behind
Where hot the hounds come baying at his hip;
With one idea foremost in his mind,
Like the keen prow of some on-forging ship.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Related quotes
One Came For All
Down upon this earthly sand, came in flesh The Son of Man,
He appeared as The Word, this from God is what men heard.
Christ sent The Holy Spirit, so when spoken we could hear it,
And The Spirit in men will lead, as they plant and water seed.
Holy seed that God shall grow, so that all the world can know,
Salvation comes through only one, Jesus Christ His only Son.
Under Heaven is but one name, that men forever will proclaim,
As God’s only true salvation, for each and every earthly nation.
Only in the Son Jesus Christ, can earthly man gain eternal life,
When in Him we’re born of God, upon this present earthly sod.
Eternal death is what’s in store, for all men who reject the Lord,
For all power was given to Him; Christ, who died for all our sin.
Christ is coming back to receive, all of those who truly believe,
To take to Heaven all His own, to the glory of an eternal home.
While wrath abides on everyone, who refuses God’s Only Son,
Who was God’s perfect sacrifice, as He paid sin’s eternal price.
God had paved the way at Calvary, for all men to live eternally,
Where Christ died for all men; so that we could be Born Again.
He came not to judge the world, but with a message to herald,
That man can live forevermore, in Jesus Christ the Risen Lord.
(Copyright ©02/2007)
Shall the Harp Then Be Silent
Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave
To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?
Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave
Where the first -- where the last of her Patriots lies?
No -- faint though the death-song may fall from his lips,
Though his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost,
Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse,
And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost; --
What a union of all the affections and powers
By which life is exalted, embellish'd, refined,
Was embraced in that spirit -- whose centre was ours,
While its mighty circumference circled mankind.
Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see,
Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime --
Like a pyramid raised in the desert -- where he
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;
That one lucid interval, snatch'd from the gloom
And the madness of ages, when fill'd with his soul,
A Nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her doom,
And for one sacred instant, touch'd Liberty's goal?
Who, that ever hath heard him -- hath drunk at the source
Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own,
In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force,
And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown?
An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave
Wander'd free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone through
As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," and gave,
With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.
Who, what ever approach'd him, when free from the crowd,
In a home full of love, he delighted to read
'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bow'd,
As if each brought a new civic crown for his head --
Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life
But at distance observed him -- through glory, through blame,
In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,
Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same? --
Oh no, not a heart that e'er knew him but mourns
Deep, deep, o'er the grave where such glory is shrined --
O'er a monument Fame will preserve 'mong the urns
Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!
poem by Thomas Moore
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The Dark Master
The dark master holds my eyes open wide open
Try to block him with white mind
The dark master wins and holds my eyes wide open
The dark master to strong so I play in his world
Death ok life loss ok gain worry ok relax dark turns to grey
I am strong very strong I push him back into subconscious
The gray turns white my eyes close see him again tomorrow
poem by Bruce Meyerson
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India Rubber
Did it all for you to say
You never wanted me that way
Now the dogs have had their meat
I think I'll go plug in the mains
I tumble like a clown
Before your baying hounds
I supplicate myself
Into your hands
When you spare a make-up smile
I'm instantly your biggest fan
How I was to know that
You practised it beforehand?
I tumble like a clown
Before your baying hounds
I supplicate myself
Into your hands
song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Black Dog
A dark paranoia dogs my steps,
goes for the throat, leaps on my chest,
brings down it's prey and rips my flesh,
baying at the moon.
I am a tortured soul in hell,
flayed alive, not doing well.
A black dog obeying some primal spell,
baying at the moon.
Moods that shift from meek and mild,
to vile anger, all blast and bile,
courting danger and passions wild,
baying at the moon.
The hunt is savage and hard-pressed,
with gnashing teeth to stop my breath.
A scream of horror, mute in my breast,
baying at the moon.
My limber friends fawn and smile,
to render pity to the unruly child.
I curse their tenderness, I spit and snarl,
baying at the moon.
I drank the poison from the vial,
and saw my visions from exile.
An addict's life can be a trial,
baying at the moon.
Some arcane instinct, I cannot tell.
Repellant in it's ancient smell,
craven fear made visceral,
baying at the moon.
The jealous gods have unleashed the hounds.
The pack scent blood and my weeping wounds;
the chase is on, my life in ruins,
baying at the moon.
A gauntlet run that lasts for miles,
exhausts the body and the mind's denials.
Love is madness and we're all beguiled,
baying at the moon.
poem by David SmithWhite
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The House of Clay
THERE was a house, a house of clay,
Wherein the inmate sat all day,
Merry and poor;
For Hope sat with her, heart to heart,
Fond and kind, fond and kind,
Vowing he never would depart, --
Till all at once he changed his mind:
"Sweetheart, good by!" He slipped away
And shut the door.
But Love came past, and, looking in,
With smile that pierced like sunbeam thin
Through wall, roof, floor,
Stood in the midst of that poor room,
Grand and fair, grand and fair,
Making a glory out of gloom: --
Till at the window mocked cruel Care:
Love sighed; "All lose, and nothing win?" --
He shut the door.
Then o'er the close-barred house of clay
Kind clematis and woodbine gay
Crept more and more;
And bees hummed merrily outside,
Loud and strong, loud and strong,
The inner silentness to hide,
The patient silence all day long;
Till evening touched with finger gray
The bolted door.
Most like, the next step passing by
Will be the Angel's, whose calm eye
Marks rich, marks poor:
Who, fearing not, at any gate
Stands and calls, stands and calls;
At which the inmate opens straight, --
Whom, ere the crumbling clay-house falls,
He takes in kind arms silently,
And shuts the door.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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About Some Things Unseen (Cavatina Sequence)
(after Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
In loving each other we sow our seed,
in passion kiss
while we wish for some greater happiness,
in joy's great bliss
and then suddenly some life comes from us
and we know this
binds us each to each and to a own child,
our joy and pride runs extremely wild.
From our very birth we learn about love;
feelings within
at times comes forward from the very dark,
they are unseen
but alive they jump, breathe, roar, run and thrill;
they are quite keen
to set a mark on each single life
they materialize in love and strive.
Still the depths of some selfless love remain
a mystery
while we create like the divine some new life,
we are set free
to love or hate, to do right or wrong in
integrity
or in the evil, we strive on our own,
or we try to reach beyond the unknown.
[Reference: 'Mystery' by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Heaven Is Awaiting
Yes, Heaven is awaiting me, where my Lord, I know I’ll see,
When I leave this earthly life, to be greeted by Jesus Christ.
Whether through a veil of death, when I take my last breath,
Or in the twinkling of an eye, when I am raptured to the sky.
For in Christ I know my friend, this life earthly is not my end.
For this is a temporal place, where we find the Lord’s Grace,
We’re given by God, eyes to see, after this life is an eternity,
Using then the Spirit’s lead, He helps us recognize our need.
With God’s Word of Revelation, He opens eyes to salvation,
And lead by The Holy Spirit, He opens all hearts who hear it.
When in God we put our trust, He makes room above for us,
As Christ has an eternal home, for all The Lord calls His own,
Prepared without human hands, well above the earthly lands.
Rooms that’ll eternally endure, built by the hands of our Lord,
Abodes built in Heaven above, prepared by our Savior’s love.
A home lacking nothing at all; gone is the curse from the fall,
Never again a troubled heart; once there we’ll never depart.
No more worries and/or fears, as Jesus wipes away all tears.
This earthly life will be no more, once in Glory with The Lord,
And as this world passes away, in Heaven we’ll forever stay.
(Copyright ©02/2007)
Almost Everything
Music by richard marx and bruce gaitsch
Lyrics by richard marx
Im waiting for some kind of healing to begin
And I wonder if you know the kind of pain Im in
Its hard wondering just what it is you see
There hasnt been a moment youve been off my mind
Ive searched through every meditation I can find
As if something could bring you back to me
Do I go on in silence
Or shout at the sky
Give me all the earthly treasures
That a single man can hold
Put the magic in my fingers
That turns everything to gold
Hand me the sun, say that Ive won
The world on a string
And then I will have almost everything
I imagine you until I swear I feel your touch
And I read the words you wrote me when it gets too much
The one piece of solace I can steal
I still need you in my life
Like never before
Give me all the earthly treasures
That a single man can hold
Put the magic in my fingers
That turns everything to gold
Hand me the sun, say I have won
The world on a string
And then I will have almost everything
I still need you in my life
More than ever before
Give me all the earthly treasures
That a single man can hold
Put the magic in my fingers
That turns everything to gold
Hand me the sun, say I have won
The world on a string
And then I will have almost everything
song performed by by Richard Marx
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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White Flag
I know you think that I shouldn't still love you
Or tell you that
But if I didn't say it
Well, I'd still have felt it
Where's the sense in that?
I promise I'm not trying to make your life harder
Or return to where we were but
I will go down with this ship
And I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
I'm in love and always will be
I know I left too much mess
And destruction to come back again
And I caused nothing but trouble
I understand if you can't talk to me again
And if you live by the rules of "It's over"
Then I'm sure that that makes sense
But I will go down with this ship
And I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
I'm in love and always will be
And when we meet
Which I'm sure we will
all that was there
Will be there still
I'll let it pass
And hold my tongue
And you will think
That I've moved on
I will go down with this ship
And I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
I'm in love and always will be
I will go down with this ship
And I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
I'm in love and always will be
I will go down with this ship
And I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
I'm in love and always will be
song performed by by Dido
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Word of God Stands Forever
All men are like the flowers and grass that soon will wither away,
However, the Eternal Word of God my friend forever is here to stay.
For in the beginning was The Word and The Word was with God,
Friend not only was The Word with God, The Word is Eternal God.
Jesus Christ is Lord and God and the very Living Word my friend,
He's The Alpha and Omega, and He's the beginning and the end.
Jesus is the Maker and the Sustainer of all things created on earth,
But the only way to truly know The Word is to experience a New Birth.
Then Christ will send The Holy Spirit from His dwelling high above,
He will seal you for the day of Glory, while filling you with love.
The Spirit will then start teaching you Truths from The Word of God,
And will put your feet firmly on a brand new path on which to trod.
For the natural man who lives by bread alone will not live forever,
This will only happen if following The Word is your life's endeavor.
Then His Word will be a lamp for your feet and a light on your path,
Guiding you to Eternal Glory, as Christ delivers you from His wrath.
Sadly many people live like there's no tomorrow in their own desire,
And since they thought The Word was foolish, will finish in the fire.
Like the grass they will perish at the end of their earthly endeavor,
While The Eternal Word of God in Glory continues to stand forever.
(Copyright © 04/2003)
The Shrine
For them we have builded a temple
To stand as a visible sign.
For them we have builded a temple,
And set in its great heart a shrine.
Ere the dull years shall tarnish their story,
While the spirit bides close to us yet,
We have set up a shrine to their glory,
Lest men should forget.
We have raised upa visible temple,
Hewn from impermanent stone;
And the spirit shall dwell in the temple;
Yet not in the temple alone.
Lest the spirit of that great oblation,
Eternal, transcending all pride,
Dwell, too, in the heart of their nation,
In vain they have died.
For a holier place has enshrined them
From treacherous time's swift decay:
A temple more hallowed has held them
Inviolate unto today.
But the friends of their friends, too, shall perish,
The seed of their seed shall grow old,
While for ever the flame that these cherish
A nation must hold.
So soon do their feet grow aweary
Of treading where glory had birth,
So soon do their souls grow aweary
Of transient things of the earth.
And they go to the great consummating,
The goal of their pilgrimage won,
To triumphant battalions awaiting
They drift one by one.
When the last tired veteran totters
From this, fame's unstable abode;
When the last tired footfall has echoed
And died in the dust of the road;
Tho' they boast down the years of his story,
If the spirit he left us shall fail
No shrine may envision that glory
No temple avail.
We have builded a visible temple;
We have set us a tangible sign
For a symbol of that truer temple,
A mark of that holier shrine;
And nought of war's long tarnished story
Dwells there, not of pride nor of pain,
But all that remains of their glory
Who died not in vain.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Beautiful, Fair and Kind
For all the world would say to me
She is beautiful, she is fair and she is kind
I reply to the world in no uncertain tone
That all of that is true I shall not deny
But alas her heart it is not mine
So what value I place upon such beauty
Cannot be accounted or held at ransom
For it is a passing thought in fact
It may well become forgotten
Or misused for whatever effect I desire
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
So the tired old saying goes
Do the blind only look upon me
What eyes see no beauty in my soul
Or is my lack of wealth my mental acclaim
A poor madman’s mind the reason
I remain without another’s heart
Still the world presents to me and says
She is beautiful, she is fair and she is kind
I acknowledge and agree whole hearted
But alas she is not ready for my mind
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Id Be A Legend In My Time
Don gibson
If heartaches brought fame
In loves crazy game
Id be a legend in my time
If they gave gold statuettes
For tears and regrets
Id be a legend in my time
But they dont give awards
And theres no praise or fame
For a heart thats been broken
Over love thats in vain
If lonliness meant world acclaim
Everyone would know my name
Id be a legend in my time
If lonliness meant world acclaim
Everyone would know my name
Id be a legend in my time
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tennyson
I
Shakespeare and Milton--what third blazoned name
Shall lips of after-ages link to these?
His who, beside the wide encircling seas,
Was England's voice, her voice with one acclaim,
For threescore years; whose word of praise was fame,
Whose scorn gave pause to man's iniquities.
II
What strain was his in that Crimean war?
A bugle call in battle; a low breath,
Plaintive and sweet, above the fields of death!
So year by year the music rolled afar,
From Euxine wastes to flowery Kandahar,
Bearing the laurel or the cypress wreath.
III
Others shall have their little space of time,
Their proper niche and bust, then fade away
Into the darkness, poets of a day;
But thou, O builder of enduring rhyme,
Thou shalt not pass! Thy fame in every clime
On earth shall live where saxon speech has sway.
IV
Waft me this verse across the winter sea,
Through light and dark, through mist and blinding sleet,
O winter winds, and lay it at his feet;
Though the poor gift betray my poverty,
At his feet lay it: it may chance that he
Will find no gift, where reverence is, unmeet.
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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Sonnet: Master-servant Relationship
Where Master cares for servant’s welfare too
And treats him like a fellow-man at least,
And twain help each other to grow and woo,
The Master can never become a beast.
Where servant earns his master’s goodwill first,
By doing duty, uttering no word,
The Master cannot ever turn his worst,
Nor any time from hilt remove his sword!
Thus, master, servant is inseparable;
One thinks about the other all the time;
And love is born strong like in a fable,
With other’s help, each makes his life sublime.
Think of the other’s needs much more than self,
And never work for worldly acclaim/pelf.
7-26-2002
poem by John Celes
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Failure
THE BOY went out from the ranges grim,
And the breath of the mountains went with him;
With a song in his heart and a smile on his face,
And a light in his eyes for a foremost place:
And the good green earth, and the salt sea spray,
And the soft blue skies, they were his that day;
And, like Eden, ringed with a golden fire—
Afar rose the Land of His Heart’s Desire.
The boy went down to the city’s strife,
And his face was lost in the surge of life;
But a Power that he did not understand
Had nerved his brain and his fighting hand.
And he strove and failed, and he rose and won—
And he failed again ere the fight was done;
But he battled on when the days were dire
To win to the Land of His Heart’s Desire.
And there, in the heart of the stress and din,
’Mid want and labour and wealth and sin,
The strong man struggled with shining eyes,
And forced a passage, and grasped the prize.
And he cried to the Power who had lent the fire:
“Lo! Fame is the Land of My Heart’s Desire!
Give the cup to me with a beaded brim.”
And the Power that he knew not gave it him.
But the air is keen on the Cliffs of Fame,
And the shafts that fly have a deadly aim!
With a foothold scarce, and a sleepless dread
For the gulfs below and the heights o’erhead,
He cried to the Power who had steeled his hand:
“I am outcast yet from my Fairyland!
For Fame is a land where no strength may tire,
But Love is the Land of My Heart’s Desire!”
Then there came to the man all his dream of Love,
With the brow of snow and the eyes of a dove,
With the glint of the sun on her wavy hair,
And her soul as pure as her face was fair.
Like a living lily to him she came,
Till his eyes were wet and his soul was flame,
And she called to him, with an outstretched hand,
And they entered into the Promised Land.
But there came a day when he asked his soul,
“Is this the land, and is this the goal?”
In his heart there lay what his lips denied—
The pang of a hunger unsatisfied.
“For Fame,” he said, “and for Love I wrought;
They are not the things that I should have sought:
’Tis to boundless power that my dreams aspire—
And Wealth is the Land of My Heart’s Desire!”
Then the Power that he did not understand
Gave him ships and houses and gold and land,
And the man’s power grew with each passing year;
But his thoughts were vexed with a sleepless fear,
And his hair grew gray with the iron strain
Of the dread of loss and the lust of gain,
And he bowed his head on his hands and said.
“All things are mine, but my heart is dead!”
And he thought of the boy from the ranges grim
With the breath of the mountains over him,
With a song in his heart and a smile on his face,
And a light in his eyes for a foremost place,
And the good green earth and the salt sea spray,
And the soft blue skies that were his that day,
When, like Eden, ringed with a golden fire,
Afar rose the Land of His Heart’s Desire.
Then clear on his startled ear there fell
A voice like the sound of a silver bell:
“To each is the work that he best can do,
But you turned from the work when it called to you.
And you sought instead for the vulgar praise,
For the lips of love, and for prosperous days.
And with all that the world can give you here,
You have lost the thing that you hold most dear.
For who hears the word that the Gods inspire—
In his work finds the Land of His Heart’s Desire.”
poem by George Essex Evans
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The Runaway Slave
I strain my ears at every sound
As I flee from Masters vast estate
I dare not walk upon the road-
must not be seen, alone, this late.
I hear the baying of his hounds
My absence has been noted there
Men with torches, men with guns,
My soul freezes me with fear.
I am the fox, his are the hounds
that I must run a desperate race
To fail is to be chained and whipped
Then sold – a horrid fate I face
The dogs grow close, but the river's near
I leap and overcome my fear.
The water will disguise my scent
With swift strong stokes I'll soon be clear
With joy I hear the hounds, confused,
barking, helpless, and at bay.
But master gets me in his sights
And sets me free another way.
I awaken from sleep with a start.
One nightmare stops, the next begins
I shower, shave and dress for work
and wonder if it ever ends..
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Patriot's Game
I.
TEAR down the crape from the column! Let the shaft stand white and fair!
Be silent the wailing music—there is no death in the air!
We come not in plaint or sorrow—no tears may dim our sight:
We dare not weep o'er the epitaph we have not dared to write.
Come hither with glowing faces, the sire, the youth, and the child;
This grave is a shrine for reverent hearts and hands that are undefiled:
Its ashes are inspiration; it giveth us strength to bear,
And sweepeth away dissension, and nerveth the will to dare.
In the midst of the tombs a Gravestone—and written thereon no word!
And behold! at the head of the grave, a gibbet, a torch, and a sword!
And the people kneel by the gibbet, and pray by the nameless stone
For the torch to be lit, and the name to be writ, and the sword's red work to be done!
II.
With pride and not with grief
We lay this century leaf
Upon the tomb, with hearts that do not falter:
A few brief, toiling years
Since fell the nation's tears,
And lo, the patriot's gibbet is an altar!
The people that are blest
Have him they love the best
To mount the martyr's scaffold when they need him;
And vain the cords that bind
While the nation's steadfast mind,
Like the needle to the pole, is true to freedom!
III.
Three powers there are that dominate the world-
Fraud, Force, and Right—and two oppress the one:
The bolts of Fraud and Force like twins are hurled—
Against them ever standeth Right alone.
Cyclopian strokes the brutal allies give:
Their fetters massive and their dungeon walls;
Beneath their yoke, weak nations cease to live,
And valiant Right itself defenseless falls!
Defaced is law, and justice slain at birth;
Good men are broken—malefactors thrive;
But, when the tyrants tower o'er the earth,
Behind their wheels strong right is still alive!
Alive, like seed that God's own hand has sown—
Like seed that lieth in the lowly furrow,
But springs to life when wintry winds are blown:
To-day the earth is gray—'tis green to-morrow.
The roots strike deep despite the rulers' power,
The plant grows strong with summer sun and rain,
Till autumn bursts the deep red-hearted flower,
And freedom marches to the front again!
While slept the right, and reigned the dual wrong,
Unchanged, unchecked, for half a thousand years,
In tears of blood we cried, 'O Lord, how long!'
And even God seemed deaf to Erin's tears.
But, when she lay all weak and bruised and broken,
Her white limbs seared with cruel chain and thorn—
As bursts the cloud, the lightning word was spoken,
God's seed took root—His crop of men was born!
With one deep breath began the land's progression:
On every field the seeds of freedom fell:
Burke, Grattan, Flood, and Curran in the session—
Fitzgerald, Sheares, and Emmet in the cell!
Such teachers soon aroused the dormant nation—
Such sacrifice insured the endless fight:
The voice of Grattan smote wrong's domination—
The death of Emmet sealed the cause of right!
IV.
Richest of gifts to- a, nation! Death with the living crown!
Type of ideal manhood to the people's heart brought down!
Fount of the hopes we cherish—test of the things we do;
Gorgon's face for the traitor—talisman for the true!
Sweet is the love of a woman, and sweet is the kiss of a child;
Sweet is the tender strength, and the bravery of the mild;
But sweeter than all, for embracing all, is the young life's peerless price—
The young heart laid on the altar, as a nation's sacrifice.
How can the debt be canceled? Prayers and tears we may give—
But how recall the anguish of hearts that have ceased to live?
Flushed with the pride of genius—filled with the strength of life—
Thrilled with delicious passion for her who would be his wife—
This was the heart he offered—the upright life he gave—
This is the silent sermon of the patriot's nameless grave.
Shrine of a nation's honor—stone left blank for a name
Light on the dark horizon to guide us clear from shame
Chord struck deep with the keynote, telling us what can save—
'A nation among the nations,' or forever a nameless grave.
Such is the will of the martyr—the burden we still must bear;
But even from death he reaches the legacy to share:
He teaches the secret of manhood—the watchword of those who aspire—
That men must follow freedom though it lead through blood and fire;
That sacrifice is the bitter draught which freemen still mast quaff—
That every patriotic life is the patriot's epitaph.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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