America, O Power benign, great hearts revere your name,
You stretch your hand to every land, to weak and strong the same; You claim no conquest of the sea, nor conquest of the field, But conquest for the rights of man, that despots all shall yield. Chorus: America, fair land of mine, home of the just and true, All hail to thee, land of the free, and the Red-White-and-Blue. America, staunch, undismayed, your spirit is our might: No splendor falls on feudal walls upon your mountain's height, But shafts of Justice pierce your skies to light the way for all, A world's great brotherhood of man, that cannot, must not fall. America, in God we trust, we fear no tyrant's horde: There's light that leads toward better deeds than conquest by the sword; Yet our cause is just, if fight we must until the world be free Of every menace, breed, or caste that strikes at Liberty. America, home of the brave, our song in praise we bring- Where Stars and Stripes the winds unfurl, 'tis there that tributes ring; Our fathers gave their lives that we should live in Freedom's light- Our lives we consecrate to thee, our guide the Might of Right. -Arthur Nicholas Hosking
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O Beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain, For purple mountain majesties Above the fruited plain! America! America! God shed His grace on thee And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea! O beautiful for pilgrim feet, Whose stern, impassioned stress A thoroughfare for freedom beat Across the wilderness! America! America! God mend thine every flaw, Confirm thy soul in self-control, Thy liberty in law! O beautiful for heroes proved In liberating strife, Who more than self their country loved, And mercy more than life! America! America! May God thy gold refine, Till all success be nobleness And every gain divine! O beautiful for patriot dream That sees beyond the years Thine alabaster cities gleam Undimmed by human tears! America! America! God shed His grace on thee, And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea! -Katharine Lee Bates God, when you thought of a pine tree,
How did you think of a star? How did you dream of a damson West Crossed by an inky bar? How did you think of a clear brown pool Where flocks of shadows are? God, when you thought of a cobweb, How did you think of dew? How did you know a spider's house Had shingles, bright and new? How did you know we human folk Would love them as we do? God, when you chiseled a raindrop, How did you think of a stem Bearing a lovely satin leaf To hold the tiny gem? How did you know a million drops Would deck the morning's hem? Why did you mate the moonlit night With the honeysuckle vines? How did you know Madeira bloom Distilled ecstatic wines? How did you weave the velvet dusk Where tangled perfumes are? God, when you thought of a pine tree, How did you think of a star? -Angela Morgan Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come. -Christina Georgina Rossetti If we knew the woe and heartache
Waiting for us down the road, If our lips could taste the wormwood, If our backs could feel the load, Would we waste the day in wishing For a time that ne'er can be? Would we wait in such impatience For our ships to come from sea? If we knew the baby fingers Pressed against the windowpane Would be cold and stiff tomorrow- Never trouble us again- Would the bright eyes of our darling Catch the frown upon our brow? Would the print of rosy fingers Vex us then as they do now? Ah! These little ice-cold fingers- How they point our memories back To the hasty words and actions Strewn along our backward track! How these little hands remind us, As in snowy grace they lie, Not to scatter thorns-but roses- For our reaping by and by. Strange we never prize the music Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown; Strange that we should slight the violets Till the lovely flowers are gone; Strange that summer skies and sunshine Never seem one half so fair As when winter's snowy pinions Shake their white down in the air! Lips from which the seal of silence None but God can roll away, Never blossomed in such beauty As adorns the mouth today; And sweet words that freight our memory With their beautiful perfume, Come to us in sweeter accents Through the portals of the tomb. Let us gather up the sunbeams Lying all around our path; Let us keep the wheat and roses, Casting out the thorns and chaff; Let us find our sweetest comfort In the blessings of today, With a patient hand removing All the briars from the way. -May Riley Smith "How far is it to Bethlehem Town?"
Just over Jersusalem hills adown, Past lovely Rachel's white-domed tomb- Sweet shrine of motherhood's young doom. "It isn't far to Bethlehem Town- Just over the dusty roads adown, Past Wise Men's well, still offering Cool draughts from welcome wayside spring; Past shepherds with their flutes of reed That charm the woolly sheep they lead; Past boys with kites on hilltops flying, And soon you're there where Bethlehem's lying. Sunned white and sweet on olived slopes, Gold-lighted still with Judah's hopes. "And so we fnd the Shepherd's field And plain that gave rich Boaz yield, And look where Herod's villa stood. We thrill that Bethlehem Town to-day Looks down on Christmas homes that pray. "It isn't far to Bethlehem Town! It's anywhere that Christ comes down And finds in people's friendly face A welcome and abiding place. The road to Bethlehem runs right through The homes of folks like me and you." -Madeleine Sweeny Miller I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple blossoms fill the air- I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand, And lead me into his dark land, And close my eyes and quench my breath- It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow flowers appear. God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, When Love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year; And to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous. -Alan Seeger When I get time-
I know what I shall do: I'll cut the leaves of all my books And read them through and through. When I get time- I'll write some letters then That I have owed for weeks and weeks To many, many men. When I get time- I'll pay those calls I owe, And with those bills, those countless bills, I will not be slow. When I get time- I'll regulate my life In such a way that I may get Acquainted with my wife. When I get time- Oh glorious dream of bliss! A month, a year, ten years from now- But I can't finish this- I've no more time. -Thomas L. Masson Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe- Sailed on a river of misty light Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring-fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we," Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. The old moon laughed and a song As they rocked in the wooden shoe, And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew; The little stars were the herring-fish That lived in the beautiful sea; "Now cast your nets wherever you wish, But never afeared are we"- So cried the stars to the fisherman three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. All night long their nets they threw For the fish in the twinkling foam, Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home. "T was all so pretty a sail, it seemed As if it could not be; And some folks thought 't was a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea. But I shall name you the fisherman three; Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed; So shut your eyes while mother sings Of the wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock in the misty sea Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three- Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. -Eugene Field He has solved it-Life's wonderful problem,
The deepest, the strongest, the last; And into the school of the angels With the answer forever has passed. How strange that, in spite of our questions, He maketh no answer, nor tells Why soon were earth's honoring laurels Displaced by God's own immortelles. How strange he should sleep so profoundly, So young, so unworn by the strife! While beside him, brimful of Hope's nectar, Untouched stands the goblet of life. Men slumber like that when evening Of a long, weary day droppeth down; But he wrought so well that the morning Brought for him the rest and the crown. 'Tis idle to talk of the future And the rare "might have been," 'mid our tears; God knew all about it, yet took him Away from the oncoming years. God knew all about it-how noble, How gentle he was, and how brave, How brilliant his possible future- Yet put him to sleep in the grave. God knows all about those who loved him, How bitter the trial must be; And right through it all God is loving, And knows so much better than we. So, right in the darkness, be trustful; One day you shall sing, "It is well." God took from his young brow earth's laurels And crowned him with death's immortelles. -unknown |
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