Tell Him So
Unknown Author
If you hear a kind word spoken
Of some worthy soul you know,
It may fill his heart with sunshine
If you only tell him so.
If a deed, however humble,
Helps you on your way to go,
Seek the one whose hand has helped you,
Seek him out and tell him so!
If your heart is touched and tender
Toward a sinner, lost and low,
It might help him to do better
If you�d only tell him so!
Oh, my sisters, oh, my brothers,
As o�er life�s rough path you go,
If God�s love has saved and kept you,
Do not fail to tell men so!
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A Thing Of Beauty
John Keats
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever;
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.
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The Tiger
William Blake
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy beautiful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy feaful symmetry?
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To A Friend
Grace Stricker Dawson
You entered my life in a casual way,
And saw at a glance what I needed;
There were others who passed me or met me each day,
But never a one of them heeded.
Perhaps you were thinking of other folks more,
Or chance simply seemed to decree it;
I know there were many such chances before,
But the others - well, they didn't see it.
You said just the thing that I wished you would say,
And you made me believe that you meant it;
I held up my head in the old gallant way,
And resolved you should never repent it.
There are times when encouragement means such a lot,
And a word is enough to convey it;
There were others who could have, as easy as not -
But, just the same, they didn't say it.
There may have been someone who could have done more,
To help me along, though I doubt it;
What I needed was cheering, and always before
They had let me plod onward without it.
You helped to refashion the dream of my heart,
And made me turn eagerly to it;
There were others who might have (I question that part) -
But, after all, they didn't do it!
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To My Unborn Son
Captain Cyril Morton Thorne
"My son!" What simple, beautiful words!
"My boy!" What a wonderful phrase!
We're counting the months till you come to us -
The months, and the weeks, and the days!
"The new little stranger," some babes are called,
But that's not what you're going to be;
With double my virtues and half of my faults,
You can't be a stranger to me!
Your mother is straight as a sapling plant,
The cleanest and best of her clan -
You're bone of her bone, and flesh of her flesh,
And, by heaven, we'll make you a man!
Soon I shall take you in two strong arms -
You that shall howl for joy -
With a simple, passionate, wonderful pride
Because you are just - my boy!
And you shall lie in your mother's arms,
And croon at your mother's breast,
And I shall thank God I am there to shield
The two that I love the best.
A wonderful thing is a breaking wave,
And sweet is the scent of spring,
But the silent voice of an unborn babe
Is God's most beautiful thing.
We're listening now to that silent voice
And waiting, your mother and I -
Waiting to welcome the fruit of our love
When you come to us by and by.
We're hungry to show you a wonderful world
With wonderful things to be done,
We're aching to give you the best of us both
And we're lonely for you - my son!
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The Touch Of The Master's Hand
Myra Brooks Welch
'Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarecely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile:
"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who'll start the bidding for me?"
"A dollar, a dollar"; then, "Two!" "Only two?
Two dollars, and who'll make it three?
Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;
Going for three --" But no,
From the room, far back, a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loose strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet
As a caroling angel sings.
The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said: "What am I bid for the old violin?"
And he held it up with the bow.
"A thousand dollars, and who'll make it two?
Two thousand! And who'll make it three?
Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice,
And going, and gone," said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand
What changed its worth." Swift came the reply:
"The touch of a master's hand."
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd,
Much like the old violin.
A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine;
A game - and he travels on.
He is "going" once, and "going" twice,
And "going" and almost "gone."
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that's wrought
By the touch of the Master's hand.
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The Town Of Nogood
W. E. Penny
My friend, have you heard of the town of Nogood,
On the banks of the River Slow,
Where blooms the Waitawhile flower fair,
Where the Sometimeorother scents the air,
And the soft Goeasies grow?
It lies in the Valley of Whatstheuse,
In the Province of Letterslide.
That Tiredfeeling is native there,
It's the home of the reckles Idontcare,
Where the Giveitups abide.
It stands at the bottom of Lazyhill,
And is easy to reach, I declare;
You've only to fold up your hands and glide
Down the slope of Weakwill's toboggan slide
To be landed quickly there.
The town is as old as the human race
And it grows with the flight of years.
It is wrapped in the fog of idlers' dreams,
Its streets are paved with discarded schemes,
And sprinkled with useless tears.
The Collegebred fool and the Richman's heir
Are plentiful there, no doubt.
The rest of its crowd are a motley crew,
With every class except one in view -
The Foolkiller is barred out.
The town of Nogood is all hedged about
By the mountains of Despair.
No sentinel stands on its gloomy walls,
No trumpet to battle and triumph calls,
For cowards alone are there.
My friend, from the dead-alive town of Nogood
If you would keep far away,
Just follow your duty through good and ill,
Take this for your motto, "I can, I will,"
And live up to it each day.
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Transition
Evie Kinney
The city dozes tranquilly
As purpled shadows fall,
Until her glittering lights come out
To hear the nightbird's call.
The hillside slumbers stolidly;
The night is calm and still,
'Till breezes brush her fevered cheek;
Awake each rock and rill.
Morning timidly awakes
To the sound of sparkling dew;
The radiant sun peeps over hill
To cheer each heart anew.
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Vases
Nan Terrell Reed
Two vases stood on the Shelf of Life
As Love came by to look,
One was of priceless cloisonn�,
The other of solid common clay.
Which do you think Love took?
He took them both from the Shelf of Life,
He took them both with a smile;
He clasped them both with his finger tips,
And touched them both with caressing lips,
And held them both for a while.
From tired hands Love let them fall,
And never a word was spoken.
One was of pricless cloisonn�,
The other of solid common clay.
Which do you think was broken?
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A Wise Old Owl
Edward Hersey Richards
A wise old owl lived in an oak;
The more he saw the less he spoke;
The less he spoke the more he heard:
Why can't we all be like that bird?
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A Woman's Question
Lena Lathrop
Do you know you have asked for the costliest thing
Ever made by the Hand above?
A woman's heart, and a woman's life -
And a woman's wonderful love.
Do you know you have aked for this priceless thing
As a child might ask for a toy?
Demanding what others have died to win,
With the reckless dash of a boy.
You have written my lesson of duty out;
Manlike, you have questioned me.
Now stand at the bar of my womans's soul
Until I shall question thee.
You require your mutton shall be always hot,
Your socks and your shirt be whole;
I require your heart to be true as God's stars
And as pure as His heaven your soul.
You require a cook for your mutton and beef,
I require a far greater thing;
A seamstress you're wanting for socks and shirts -
I look for a man and a king.
A king for the beautiful realm called Home,
And a man that his Maker, God,
Shall look upon as He did on the first
And say: "It is very good."
I am fair and young, but the rose may fade
From my soft young cheek one day;
Will you love me then 'mid the falling leaves,
As you did 'mong the blossoms of May?
Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep,
I may launch my all on its tide?
A loving woman finds heaven or hell
On the day she is made a bride.
I require all things that are grand and true,
All things that a man should be;
If you give this all, I would stake my life
To be all you demand of me.
If you cannot be this, a laundress and cook
You can hire and little to pay;
But a woman's heart and a woman's life
Are not to be won that way.
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Woman Was Created
Unknown Author
Woman was created from the rib of man.
She was not made from his head -
To top him,
Nor from his feet -
To be trampled on.
She was made from his side -
To be equal to him,
From under his arm -
To be protected by him,
From near his heart -
To be loved by him.
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Youth's Contemplation
Evie Kinney
I would catch again this loveliness:
The color of a bright-hued flower,
The twitter of a bird's sweet song,
A passing sunlit hour;
Relive again that youthful glee
That lingers fresh in memory;
In contemplation's youngest hour,
Unwind the secret of a flower.
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