Be secret, heart; and if your dreams have come
To nothingness, and if their weight was sweet
Within you – then be silent in defeat,
Counting your lost imaginings as the sum
Of destined joy. Lest men should call you dumb
Sing still the songs that hold within their beat
The hopes of every man, and the wild, sweet
Predictions of what earth shall yet become.
Be secret, heart. The words that you would tell
Of your own longing, and your keen distress –
Hold them to silence; kill, destroy, suppress
That melody, although you love it well.
And sing the songs that men have always sung
Of love and sorrow, since the world was young.
~Anna Virginia Mitchell~
The poem I should like to write was written long ago,
In vast primeval valleys and on mountains clad in snow;
It was written where no foot of man or beast had ever trod,
And where the first wild flower turned its smiling face to God;
Where mighty winds swept far and wide – o’er dark and sullen seas,
And where the first earth-mother sat, a child upon her knees.
The poem I should like to write is written in the stars,
Where Venus holds her glowing torch behind her gleaming bars;
Where old Arcturus swings his lamp across the fields of space,
And all his brilliant retinue is wheeling into place;
Where unknown suns must rise and set, as ages onward fare –
The poem I should like to write is surely written there.
No human hand can write it, for with a pen divine,
The Master Poet wrote it – each burning word and line.
~Margaret A. Windes~
Across the fields of yesterday
He sometimes comes to me,
A little lad just back from play –
The lad I used to be.
And yet he smiles so wistfully
Once he has crept within,
I wonder if he hopes to see
The man I might have been.
~Thomas S. Jones, Jr.~
I like a road that leads away to prospects white and fair,
A road that is an ordered road, like a nun’s evening prayer;
But, best of all, I love a road that leads to God knows where.
You come upon it suddenly — you cannot seek it out;
It’s like a secret still unheard and never noised about;
But when you see it, gone at once is every lurking doubt.
It winds beside some rushing stream where aspens lightly quiver,
It follows many a broken field by many a shining river;
It seems to lead you on and on, forever and forever!
You tramp along its dusty way, beneath its shadowy trees,
And hear beside you chattering birds or happy booming bees,
And all around you golden sounds, the green leaves’ litanies.
And here’s a hedge, and there’s a cot; and then — strange, sudden turns;
A dip, a rise, a little glimpse where the red sunset burns;
A bit of sky at eveningtime, the scent of hidden ferns.
A winding road, a loitering road, a finger-mark of God
Traced when the Maker of the world leaned over ways untrod.
See! Here He smiled His glowing smile, and lo, the golden-rod!
I like a road that wanders straight; the King’s highway is fair,
And lovely are the sheltered lanes that take you here and there;
But, best of all, I love a road that leads to God knows where.
~Charles Hanson Towne~
Susie Lee done fell in love,
She planned to marry Joe.
She was so happy ‘bout it all
She told her pappy so.
Pappy told her, Susie gal,
You’ll have to find another,
I’d just as soon yo’ ma don’t know,
But Joe is yo’ half brother.
So Susie put aside her Joe,
And planned to marry Will.
But after telling pappy this,
He said, ‘There’s trouble still.’
You can’t marry Will, my gal,
And please don’t tell yo’ mother.
But Will and Joe and several mo’
I know is yo’ half brother.
But mamma knew and said, my child,
Just do what makes yo’ happy.
Marry Will or marry Joe
You ain’t no kin to pappy.
A few words of advice…
Some succeed because they are destined to. Most succeed because they are determined to.
Success is a journey, not a destination.
Teamwork divides the task and doubles the success.
The race is not always to the swift … but to those who keep on running.
The road to success is always under construction.
The trials of today bring the rewards of tomorrow.
To be a winner all you need to give is all you have.
Success is not just money in the bank, but a contented heart and peace of mind. Sarah Breathnach
To be successful, the first thing to do is to fall in love with work. Sister Mary Lauretta
I don’t know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everybody. Bill Cosby
Failure is no more fatal than success is permanent.
I couldn’t wait for success….so I went ahead without it. Jonathan Winters
Behind every successful man is a surprised woman. Maryon Pearson
Knowledge makes humble;
Ignorance makes proud;
Knowledge talks lowly;
Ignorance talks loud;
Knowledge is modest, cautious and pure;
Ignorance boastful, conceited and sure.
Kind hearts are gardens,
Kind thoughts are roots
Kind words are flowers,
Kind deeds are fruits.
A Song Of Friendship
Let’s all go singing a merry song
And meet in the morning sun,
To love our neighbor as our Lord wants,
Can also be lots of fun,
Supposing we don’t succeed?
Forgive us and help our need –
To understand what we do not know,
And let us be friends indeed.
People just can’t know the sorrow
That another has to bear
But they can express their sympathy
And show how much they care
So we’re sending this to tell you
That our thoughts are with you now
And we hope just knowing that we care
Will comfort you somehow.
An excerpt from the book “Country Seasons” by Philip Clucas in regard to the British seasons…
November marks the Celtic “Samain”, a month long associated with the cult of the dead. In pagan times, massive bonfires were lit to ensure the sun’s safe return after winter death: they believed that as the flames licked into the sky, the Sun-God grew stronger, It was a month when all natural laws were suspended, and spirits, ghost and demons roamed.
The glinting sparkle of November’s spider webs and the crunch of frosty ground are comparable with any of natures’ past glories.
Nature is unforgiving; she will not agree to withdraw her flowers, her music, her scents or her rays of light before the abominations of man. Victor Hugo
Each nightfall seemed to come earlier than the one of the previous short day. It spread out into the streets and alleys like a bruise. The Man From The Creeks, Robert Kroetsch
We are all of us dreamers of dreams,
On visions our childhood is fed;
And the heart of a child is unhaunted, it seems,
By ghosts of dreams that are dead.
From childhood to youth’s but a span,
And the years of our life are soon sped;
But the youth is no longer a youth, but a man,
When the first of his dreams is dead.
‘Tis a cup of wormwood and gall,
When the doom of a great man is said;
And the best of a man is under a pall
When the best of his dreams is dead.
He may live on by compact and plan
When the fine bloom of living is shed,
But God pity the little that’s left of a man
When most of his dreams are dead.
Let him show a brave face if he can;
Let him woo fame and fortune instead;
Yet there’s not much to do, but to bury a man
When the last of his dreams is dead.
~William Herbert Carruth~
As you face this time of loss,
May you be comforted
By the gentle reminders
Of your loved one,
And by memories
That live on in your heart.