Tag Archive | poem

I Dwell In Possibility

I DWELL IN POSSIBILITY

By Emily Dickinson

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I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of eye –
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise –

Sadness

SADNESS

By Mary Burns

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Sadness is my middle name.  All the time I keep a happy smile on my face, while sadness flows slowly underneath the bridge.  The bridge is necessary and even expedient, but it is not good to deny the rivulets of despair that trickle along the river bank.  Sadness and the shadow emotions have a need and a right to be accepted and heard, just as the happier emotions do.  It is good to have a bridge over troubled water but sometimes you have to get your feet wet.  But take care that you do not drown.

Only A Dad

ONLY A DAD

By Edgar Albert Guest

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Only a dad, with a tired face,
Coming home from the daily race,
Bringing little of gold or fame,
To show how well he has played the game,
But glad in his heart that his own rejoice
To see him come, and to hear his voice.

Only a dad, with a brood of four,
One of ten million men or more.
Plodding along in the daily strife,
Bearing the whips and the scorns of life,
With never a whimper of pain or hate,
For the sake of those who at home await.

Only a dad, neither rich nor proud,
Merely one of the surging crowd
Toiling, striving from day to day,
Facing whatever may come his way,
Silent, whenever the harsh condemn,
And bearing it all for the love of them.

Only a dad, but he gives his all
To smooth the way for his children small,
Doing, with courage stern and grim,
The deeds that his father did for him.
This is the line that for him I pen,
Only a dad, but the best of men.

A Psalm of Life

A PSALM OF LIFE

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist

 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
  Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
  And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
  And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
  Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
  Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
  Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
  And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
  Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
  In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
  Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
  Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
  Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
  We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
  Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
  Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
  Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
  With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
  Learn to labor and to wait.

May

MAY

By James Gates Percival

 

I feel a newer life in every gale;

     The winds that fan the flowers,

And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,       

      Tell of serener hours, —

   Of hours that glide unfelt away

   Beneath the sky of May.

 

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls

      From his blue throne of air,

And where his whispering voice in music falls,

      Beauty is budding there;

   The bright ones of the valley break

   Their slumbers, and awake.

 

The waving verdure rolls along the plain,

      And the wide forest weaves,

To welcome back its playful mates again,

      A canopy of leaves;

   And from its darkening shadow floats

   A gush of trembling notes.

 

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;

      The tresses of the woods

With the light dallying of the west-wind play;

      And the full-brimming floods,

   As gladly to their goal they run,

   Hail the returning sun.

 

    

  

 

Perseverance

PERSEVERANCE

By R.S.S. Andros

 

         A swallow in the spring

Came to our granary, and ‘neath the eaves

Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring

         Wet earth and straw and leaves.

 

         Day after day she toiled

With patient art, but ere her work was crowned,

Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,

         And dashed it to the ground.

 

         She found the ruin wrought,

But not cast down, forth from the place she flew,

And with her mate fresh earth and grasses brought

         And built her nest anew.

 

         But scarcely had she placed

The last soft feather on its ample floor,

When wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste

         And wrought the ruin o’er.

 

         But still her heart she kept,

And toiled again, — and last night, hearing calls,

I looked, — and lo!  three little swallows slept

         Within the earth-made walls.

 

         What truth is here, O man!

Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn?

Have clouds o’ercast thy purpose, trust, or plan?

         Have faith, and struggle on!

Mother and Child

MOTHER AND CHILD

By William Gilmore Simms

 

The wind blew wide the casement, and within–

It was the loveliest picture!–a sweet child

Lay in its mother’s arms, and drew its life,

In pauses, from the fountain,–the white round

Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark,

Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm

Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees

With beauty shroud the brooklet.  The red lips

Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast

Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower,

Wore the same color, rich and warm and fresh:–

And such alone are beautiful.  Its eye,

A full blue gem, most exquisitely set,

Looked archly on its world,–the little imp,

As if it knew even then that such a wreath

Were not for all; and with its playful hands

It drew aside the robe that hid its realm,

And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid

Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys,

And, laughing, slept.  And while it slept, the tears

Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek,–

Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring

The sunlight after.  They were tears of joy;

And the true heart of that young mother then

Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously

The silliest ballad-song that ever yet

Subdued the nursery’s voices, and brought sleep

To fold her sabbath wings above its couch.