The little cares that fretted me,
I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the winds at play; Among the lowing herds, The rustling of the trees, Among the singing birds, The humming of the bees. The fears of what may come to pass, I cast them all away, Among the clover-scented grass, Among the husking of the corn, Where the drowsy poppies nod, Where ill thoughts die and good are born, Out in the fields with God. -Louise Imogen Guiney
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To touch the cup with eager lips and taste, not drain it;
To woo and tempt and court a bliss-and not attain it; To fondle and caress a joy, yet hold it lightly, Lest it become necessity and cling too tightly; To watch the sun set in the west without regretting; To hail its advent in the east-the night forgetting; To smother care in happiness and grief in laughter; To hold the present close-not questioning hereafter; To have enough to share-to know the joy of giving; To thrill with all the sweets of life-is living. -Unknown When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all up hill, When the funds are low and the debts are high, And you want to smile, but you have to sigh, When care is pressing you down a bit, Rest, if you must-but don't you quit. Life is queer with its twists and turns, As everyone of us sometimes learns, And many a failure turns about When he might have won had he stuck it out; Don't give up, though the pace seems slow- You might succeed with another blow. Often the goal is nearer than It seems to a faint and faltering man, Often the struggler has given up When he might have captured the victor's cup. And he learned too late, when the night slipped down, How close he was to the golden crown. Success is failure turned inside out- The silver tint of the clouds of doubt- And you never can tell how close you are, It may be near when it seems afar; So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit- It's when things seem worst that you mustn't quit. -Unknown From "The Lady of the Last Minstrel," Canto VI.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High through his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentrated all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. -Sir Walter Scott By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead;- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgement day;- Under the one, the Blue; Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet;- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day;- Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe,- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day;- Under the roses, the Blue; Under the lilies, the Gray. So with an equal splendor The morning sun rays fall, With a touch, impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all;- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day;- 'Broidered with gold, the Blue; Mellowed with gold, the Gray. So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain With an equal murmur falleth The colling drip of the rain;- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day;- Wet with the rain, the Blue; Wet with the rain, the Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading. No braver battle was won;- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day;- Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray. No more shall the war cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead! Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judment day;- Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray. -Francis Miles Finch There's a graveyard near the White House
Where the Unknown Soldier lies, And the flowers there are sprinkled With the tears from mother's eyes. I stood there not so long ago With roses for the brave, And suddenly I heard a voice Speak from out the grave: "I am the Unknown Soldier," The spirit voice began, "And I think I have the right To ask some questions man to man. "Are my buddies taken care of? Was their victory so sweet? Is that big reward you offered Selling pencils on the street? "Did they really win the freedom They battled to achieve? Do you still respect the Croix de Guerre Above the empty sleeve? "Does a gold star in the window Now mean anything at all? I wonder how my old girl feels When she hears a bugle call. "And that baby who sang 'Hello, Central, give me no man's land- Can they replace her daddy With a military band? "I wonder if the profiteers Have satisfied their greed? I wonder if a soldier's mother Ever is in need? "I wonder if the kings, who planned it all Are really satisfied? They played their game of checkers And eleven million died. "I am the Unknown Soldier And maybe I died in vain, But if I were alive and my country called, I'd do it all over again." -Billy Rose |
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