Poem Country

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 07:34:00 +0000

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sailed the unshadowed main,--
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed,--
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

Poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes

HOPE

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 07:33:00 +0000

Image by Cengiz.uskuplu via Flickr

Gloom and despair are really ignorance in another form. They fail to
reckon with the fact that what appears to be baneful often turns out to
be good. Lincoln lost the senatorship to Douglas and thought he had
ended his career; had he won the contest, he might have remained only a
senator. Life often has surprise parties for us. Things come to us
masked in gloom and black; but Time, the revealer, strips off the
disguise, and lo, what we have is blessings.

Never go gloomy, man with a mind,
Hope is a better companion than fear;
Providence, ever benignant and kind,
Gives with a smile what you take with a tear;
All will be right,
Look to the light.
Morning was ever the daughter of night;
All that was black will be all that is bright,
Cheerily, cheerily, then cheer up.

Many a foe is a friend in disguise,
Many a trouble a blessing most true,
Helping the heart to be happy and wise,
With love ever precious and joys ever new.
Stand in the van,
Strike like a man!
This is the bravest and cleverest plan;
Trusting in God while you do what you can.
Cheerily, cheerily, then cheer up.

Anonymous

See It Through

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:59:00 +0000

Image via Wikipedia

When you're up against a trouble,
Meet it squarely, face to face;
Lift your chin and set your shoulders,
Plant your feet and take a brace.
When it's vain to try to dodge it,
Do the best that you can do;
You may fail, but you may conquer,
See it through!

Black may be the clouds about you
And your future may seem grim,
But don't let your nerve desert you;
Keep yourself in fighting trim.
If the worse is bound to happen,
Spite of all that you can do,
Running from it will not save you,
See it through!

Even hope may seem but futile,
When with troubles you're beset,
But remember you are facing
Just what other men have met.
You may fail, but fall still fighting;
Don't give up, whate'er you do;
Eyes front, head high to the finish.
See it through!

Poem by Edgar A. Guest

PHILOSOPHY FOR CROAKERS

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:49:00 +0000

Many people seem to get pleasure in seeing all the bad there is, and in
making everything about them gloomy. They are like the old woman who on
being asked how her health was, replied: "Thank the Lord, I'm poorly."

Some folks git a heap o' pleasure
Out o' lookin' glum;
Hoard their cares like it was treasure--
Fear they won't have some.
Wear black border on their spirit;
Hang their hopes with crape;
Future's gloomy and they fear it,
Sure there's no escape.

Now there ain't no use of whining
Weightin' joy with lead;
There is silver in the linin'
Somewhere on ahead.

Can't enjoy the sun to-day--
It may rain to-morrow;
When a pain won't come their way,
Future pains they borrow.
If there's good news to be heard,
Ears are stuffed with cotton;
Evils dire are oft inferred;
Good is all forgotten.

When upon a peel I stand,
Slippin' like a goner,
Luck, I trust, will shake my hand
Just around the corner.

Keep a scarecrow in the yard,
Fierce old bulldog near 'em;
Chase off joy that's tryin' hard
To come in an' cheer 'em.
Wear their blinders big and strong,
Dodge each happy sight;
Like to keep their faces long;
Think the day is night.

Now I've had my share of trouble;
Back been bent with ill;
Big load makes the joy seem double
When I mount the hill.

Got the toothache in their soul;
Corns upon their feelin's;
Get their share but want the whole,
Say it's crooked dealings.
Natures steeped in indigo;
Got their joy-wires crossed;
Swear it's only weeds that grow;
Flowers always lost.

Now it's best to sing a song
'Stead o' sit and mourn;
Rose you'll find grows right along
Bigger than the thorn.

Beat the frogs the way they croak;
See with goggles blue--
Universe is cracked or broke,
'Bout to split in two.
Think the world is full of sin,
Soon go up the spout;
Badness always movin' in,
Goodness movin' out.

But I've found folks good and kind,
'Cause I thought they would be;
Most men try, at least I find,
To be what they should be.

Poem by Joseph Morris

WORTH WHILE (poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox)

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:31:00 +0000

It is easy enough to be pleasant,
When life flows by like a song,
But the man worth while is one who will smile,
When everything goes dead wrong.
For the test of the heart is trouble,
And it always comes with the years,
And the smile that is worth the praises of earth,
Is the smile that shines through tears.

It is easy enough to be prudent,
When nothing tempts you to stray,
When without or within no voice of sin
Is luring your soul away;
But it's only a negative virtue
Until it is tried by fire,
And the life that is worth the honor on earth,
Is the one that resists desire.

By the cynic, the sad, the fallen,
Who had no strength for the strife,
The world's highway is cumbered to-day,
They make up the sum of life.
But the virtue that conquers passion,
And the sorrow that hides in a smile,
It is these that are worth the homage on earth
For we find them but once in a while.

Poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:29:00 +0000

In any large or prolonged enterprise we are likely to take too limited a
view of the progress we are making. The obstacles do not yield at some
given point; we therefore imagine we have made no headway. The poet here
uses three comparisons to show the folly of accepting this hasty and
partial evidence. A soldier may think, from the little part of the
battle he can see, that the day is going against him; but by holding his
ground stoutly he may help his comrades in another quarter to win the
victory. Successive waves may seem to rise no higher on the land, but
far back in swollen creek and inlet is proof that the tide is coming in.
As we look toward the east, we are discouraged at the slowness of
daybreak; but by looking westward we see the whole landscape illumined.

Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labor and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.

Poem by Arthur Hugh Clough

The World is Against Me

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:28:00 +0000

Image via Wikipedia

"The world is against me," he said with a sigh.
"Somebody stops every scheme that I try.
The world has me down and it's keeping me there;
I don't get a chance. Oh, the world is unfair!
When a fellow is poor then he can't get a show;
The world is determined to keep him down low."

"What of Abe Lincoln?" I asked. "Would you say
That he was much richer than you are to-day?
He hadn't your chance of making his mark,
And his outlook was often exceedingly dark;
Yet he clung to his purpose with courage most grim
And he got to the top. Was the world against him?

"What of Ben Franklin? I've oft heard it said
That many a time he went hungry to bed.
He started with nothing but courage to climb,
But patiently struggled and waited his time.
He dangled awhile from real poverty's limb,
Yet he got to the top. Was the world against him?

"I could name you a dozen, yes, hundreds, I guess,
Of poor boys who've patiently climbed to success;
All boys who were down and who struggled alone,
Who'd have thought themselves rich if your fortune they'd known;
Yet they rose in the world you're so quick to condemn,
And I'm asking you now, was the world against them?"

Poem by Edgar A. Guest

The Answer (poem by Grantland Rice)

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:26:00 +0000

Bob Fitzsimmons lacked the physical bulk of the men he fought, was
ungainly in build and movement, and not infrequently got himself floored
in the early rounds of his contests. But many people consider him the
best fighter for his weight who ever stepped into the prize ring. Not a
favorite at first, he won the popular heart by making good. Of course he
had great natural powers; from any position when the chance at last came
he could dart forth a sudden, wicked blow that no human being could
withstand. But more formidable still was the spirit which gave him cool
and complete command of all his resources, and made him most dangerous
when he was on the verge of being knocked out.

When the battle breaks against you and the crowd forgets to cheer
When the Anvil Chorus echoes with the essence of a jeer;
When the knockers start their panning in the knocker's nimble way
With a rap for all your errors and a josh upon your play--
There is one quick answer ready that will nail them on the wing;
There is one reply forthcoming that will wipe away the sting;
There is one elastic come-back that will hold them, as it should--
Make good.

No matter where you finish in the mix-up or the row,
There are those among the rabble who will pan you anyhow;
But the entry who is sticking and delivering the stuff
Can listen to the yapping as he giggles up his cuff;
The loafer has no come-back and the quitter no reply
When the Anvil Chorus echoes, as it will, against the sky;
But there's one quick answer ready that will wrap them in a hood--
Make good.

Poem by Grantland Rice

RABBI BEN EZRA (poem by Robert Browning)

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:25:00 +0000

Then, welcome each rebuff
That turns earth's smoothness rough,
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!
Be our joys three-parts pain!
Strive, and hold cheap the strain;
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

For thence,--a paradox
Which comforts while it mocks,--
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:
What I aspired to be,
And was not, comforts me:
A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.

So, still within this life,
Though lifted o'er its strife,
Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last,
"This rage was right i' the main,
That acquiescence vain:
The Future I may face now I have proved the Past."

For more is not reserved
To man, with soul just nerved
To act to-morrow what he learns to-day:
Here, work enough to watch
The Master work, and catch
Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play.

Poem by Robert Browning

A Lesson from History

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:23:00 +0000

To break the ice of an undertaking is difficult. To cross on broken ice,
as Eliza did to freedom, or to row amid floating ice, as Washington did
to victory, is harder still. This poem applies especially to those who
are discouraged in a struggle to which they are already committed.

Everything's easy after it's done;
Every battle's a "cinch" that's won;
Every problem is clear that's solved--
The earth was round when it _revolved!_
But Washington stood amid grave doubt
With enemy forces camped about;
He could not know how he would fare
Till _after_ he'd crossed the Delaware.

Though the river was full of ice
He did not think about it twice,
But started across in the dead of night,
The enemy waiting to open the fight.
Likely feeling pretty blue,
Being human, same as you,
But he was brave amid despair,
And Washington crossed the Delaware!

So when you're with trouble beset,
And your spirits are soaking wet,
When all the sky with clouds is black,
Don't lie down upon your back
And look at _them_. Just do the thing;
Though you are choked, still try to sing.
If times are dark, believe them fair,
And you will cross the Delaware!

Poem by Joseph Morris

How Did You Die?

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:21:00 +0000

Image by -RejiK (Away) via Flickr

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that!
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there--that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;
It's how did you fight--and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?

Poem by Edmund Vance Cooke

WORK (A Song of Triumph)

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:20:00 +0000

When Captain John Smith was made the leader of the colonists at
Jamestown, Va., he discouraged the get-rich-quick seekers of gold by
announcing flatly, "He who will not work shall not eat." This rule made
of Jamestown the first permanent English settlement in the New World.
But work does more than lead to material success. It gives an outlet
from sorrow, restrains wild desires, ripens and refines character,
enables human beings to cooperate with God, and when well done, brings
to life its consummate satisfaction. Every man is a Prince of
Possibilities, but by work alone can he come into his Kingship.

Work!
Thank God for the might of it,
The ardor, the urge, the delight of it--
Work that springs from the heart's desire,
Setting the brain and the soul on fire--
Oh, what is so good as the heat of it,
And what is so glad as the beat of it,
And what is so kind as the stern command,
Challenging brain and heart and hand?

Work!
Thank God for the pride of it,
For the beautiful, conquering tide of it.
Sweeping the life in its furious flood,
Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood,
Mastering stupor and dull despair,
Moving the dreamer to do and dare.
Oh, what is so good as the urge of it,
And what is so glad as the surge of it,
And what is so strong as the summons deep,
Rousing the torpid soul from sleep?

Work!
Thank God for the pace of it,
For the terrible, keen, swift race of it;
Fiery steeds in full control,
Nostrils a-quiver to greet the goal.
Work, the Power that drives behind,
Guiding the purposes, taming the mind,
Holding the runaway wishes back,
Reining the will to one steady track,
Speeding the energies faster, faster,
Triumphing over disaster.
Oh, what is so good as the pain of it,
And what is so great as the gain of it?
And what is so kind as the cruel goad,
Forcing us on through the rugged road?

Work!
Thank God for the swing of it,
For the clamoring, hammering ring of it,
Passion and labor daily hurled
On the mighty anvils of the world.
Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it?
And what is so huge as the aim of it?
Thundering on through dearth and doubt,
Calling the plan of the Maker out.
Work, the Titan; Work, the friend,
Shaping the earth to a glorious end,
Draining the swamps and blasting the hills,
Doing whatever the Spirit wills--
Rending a continent apart,
To answer the dream of the Master heart.
Thank God for a world where none may shirk--
Thank God for the splendor of work!

Poem by Angela Morgan

Unsubdued (poem by S.E. Kiser)

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:19:00 +0000

UNSUBDUED

"An artist's career," said Whistler, "always begins to-morrow." So does
the career of any man of courage and imagination. The Eden of such a man
does not lie in yesterday. If he has done well, he forgets his
achievements and dreams of the big deeds ahead. If he has been thwarted,
he forgets his failures and looks forward to vast, sure successes. If
fate itself opposes him, he defies it. Farragut's fleet was forcing an
entrance into Mobile Bay. One of the vessels struck something, a
terrific explosion followed, the vessel went down. "Torpedoes, sir."
They scanned the face of the commander-in-chief. But Farragut did not
hesitate. "Damn the torpedoes," said he. "Go ahead."

I have hoped, I have planned, I have striven,
To the will I have added the deed;
The best that was in me I've given,
I have prayed, but the gods would not heed.

I have dared and reached only disaster,
I have battled and broken my lance;
I am bruised by a pitiless master
That the weak and the timid call Chance.

I am old, I am bent, I am cheated
Of all that Youth urged me to win;
But name me not with the defeated,
To-morrow again, I begin.

Poem by S.E. Kiser

SOLITUDE (poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox)

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:16:00 +0000

Said an Irishman who had several times been kicked downstairs: "I begin
to think they don't want me around here." So it is with our sorrows, our
struggles. Life decrees that they belong to us individually. If we try
to make others share them, we are shunned. But struggling and weary
humanity is glad enough to share our joys.

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth
Must borrow its mirth,
It has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound
To a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure
Of all your pleasure,
But they do not want your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all;
There are none to decline
Your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by;
Succeed and give,
And it helps you live,
But it cannot help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train;
But one by one
We must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

Poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Opportunity (poem by Berton Braley)

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:11:00 +0000

Image by Flavia Abreu via Flickr

With doubt and dismay you are smitten
You think there's no chance for you, son?
Why, the best books haven't been written
The best race hasn't been run,
The best score hasn't been made yet,
The best song hasn't been sung,
The best tune hasn't been played yet,
Cheer up, for the world is young!

No chance? Why the world is just eager
For things that you ought to create
Its store of true wealth is still meagre
Its needs are incessant and great,
It yearns for more power and beauty
More laughter and love and romance,
More loyalty, labor and duty,
No chance--why there's nothing but chance!

For the best verse hasn't been rhymed yet,
The best house hasn't been planned,
The highest peak hasn't been climbed yet,
The mightiest rivers aren't spanned,
Don't worry and fret, faint hearted,
The chances have just begun,
For the Best jobs haven't been started,
The Best work hasn't been done.

A Poem by: Berton Braley

Just Be Glad

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:07:00 +0000

Image by Hamed Saber via Flickr

O heart of mine, we shouldn't
Worry so!
What we've missed of calm we couldn't
Have, you know!
What we've met of stormy pain,
And of sorrow's driving rain,
We can better meet again,
If it blow!

We have erred in that dark hour
We have known,
When our tears fell with the shower,
All alone!--
Were not shine and shower blent
As the gracious Master meant?--
Let us temper our content
With His own.

For, we know, not every morrow
Can be sad;
So, forgetting all the sorrow
We have had,
Let us fold away our fears,
And put by our foolish tears,
And through all the coming years
Just be glad.

Poem by: James Whitcomb Riley

If I Should Die

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:06:00 +0000

A man whose word is as good as his bond is a man the world admires. It
is related of Fox that a tradesman whom he long had owed money found him
one day counting gold and asked for payment. Fox replied: "No; I owe
this money to Sheridan. It is a debt of honor. If an accident should
happen to me, he has nothing to show." The tradesman tore his note to
pieces: "I change my debt into a debt of honor." Fox thanked him and
handed over the money, saying that Sheridan's debt was not of so long
standing and that Sheridan must wait. But most of us know men who are
less scrupulous than Fox.

If I should die to-night
And you should come to my cold corpse and say,
Weeping and heartsick o'er my lifeless clay--
If I should die to-night,
And you should come in deepest grief and woe--
And say: "Here's that ten dollars that I owe,"
I might arise in my large white cravat
And say, "What's that?"

If I should die to-night
And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel,
Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel,
I say, if I should die to-night
And you should come to me, and there and then
Just even hint 'bout payin' me that ten,
I might arise the while,
But I'd drop dead again.

Poem by Ben King

Wanted - A MAN

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:02:00 +0000

Business and the world are exacting in their demands upon us. They make
no concessions to half-heartedness, incompetence, or plodding mediocrity.
But for the man who has proved his worth and can do the exceptional
things with originality and sound judgment, they are eagerly watchful
and have rich rewards.

You say big corporations scheme
To keep a fellow down;
They drive him, shame him, starve him too
If he so much as frown.
God knows I hold no brief for them;
Still, come with me to-day
And watch those fat directors meet,
For this is what they say:

"In all our force not one to take
The new work that we plan!
In all the thousand men we've hired
Where shall we find a man?"

The world is shabby in the way
It treats a fellow too;
It just endures him while he works,
And kicks him when he's through.
It's ruthless, yes; let him make good,
Or else it grabs its broom
And grumbles: "What a clutter's here!
We can't have this. Make room!"

And out he goes. It says, "Can bread
Be made from mouldy bran?
The men come swarming here in droves,
But where'll I find a man?"

Yes, life is hard. But all the same
It seeks the man who's best.
Its grudging makes the prizes big;
The obstacle's a test.
Don't ask to find the pathway smooth,
To march to fife and drum;
The plum-tree will not come to you;
Jack Horner, hunt the plum.

The eyes of life are yearning, sad,
As humankind they scan.
She says, "Oh, there are men enough,
But where'll I find a man?"

A Poem By: St. Clair Adams

The Woman Who Understands

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 06:52:00 +0000

Image via Wikipedia

"Is this the little woman that made this great war?" was Lincoln's
greeting to Harriet Beecher Stowe. Often a woman is responsible for
events by whose crash and splendor she herself is obscured. Often too
she shapes the career of husband or brother or son. A man succeeds and
reaps the honors of public applause, when in truth a quiet little woman
has made it all possible--has by her tact and encouragement held him to
his best, has had faith in him when his own faith has languished, has
cheered him with the unfailing assurance, "You can, you must, you will."

Somewhere she waits to make you win, your soul in her firm, white hands--
Somewhere the gods have made for you, the Woman Who Understands!_

As the tide went out she found him
Lashed to a spar of Despair,
The wreck of his Ship around him--
The wreck of his Dreams in the air;
Found him and loved him and gathered
The soul of him close to her heart--
The soul that had sailed an uncharted sea,
The soul that had sought to win and be free--
The soul of which _she_ was part!
And there in the dusk she cried to the man,
"Win your battle--you can, you can!"

Broken by Fate, unrelenting,
Scarred by the lashings of Chance;
Bitter his heart--unrepenting--
Hardened by Circumstance;
Shadowed by Failure ever,
Cursing, he would have died,
But the touch of her hand, her strong warm hand,
And her love of his soul, took full command,
Just at the turn of the tide!
Standing beside him, filled with trust,
"Win!" she whispered, "you must, you must!"

Helping and loving and guiding,
Urging when that were best,
Holding her fears in hiding
Deep in her quiet breast;
This is the woman who kept him
True to his standards lost,
When, tossed in the storm and stress of strife,
He thought himself through with the game of life
And ready to pay the cost.
Watching and guarding, whispering still,
"Win you can--and you will, you will!"

This is the story of ages,
This is the Woman's way;
Wiser than seers or sages,
Lifting us day by day;
Facing all things with a courage
Nothing can daunt or dim,
Treading Life's path, wherever it leads--
Lined with flowers or choked with weeds,
But ever with him--with him!
Guidon--comrade--golden spur--
The men who win are helped by _her_!

_Somewhere she waits, strong in belief, your soul in her firm, white hands:
Thank well the gods, when she comes to you--the Woman Who Understands!_

By: Everard Jack Appleton

Friends of Mine ( a poem by James W. Foley)

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 06:51:00 +0000

Good-morning, Brother Sunshine,
Good-morning, Sister Song,
I beg your humble pardon
If you've waited very long.
I thought I heard you rapping,
To shut you out were sin,
My heart is standing open,
Won't you
walk
right
in?

Good-morning, Brother Gladness,
Good-morning, Sister Smile,
They told me you were coming,
So I waited on a while.
I'm lonesome here without you,
A weary while it's been,
My heart is standing open,
Won't you
walk
right
in?

Good-morning, Brother Kindness,
Good-morning, Sister Cheer,
I heard you were out calling,
So I waited for you here.
Some way, I keep forgetting
I have to toil or spin
When you are my companions,
Won't you
walk
right
in?

James W. Foley

The Quitter (a poem by Robert W. Service)

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 06:48:00 +0000

When you're lost in the wild and you're scared as a child,
And death looks you bang in the eye;
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and die.
But the code of a man says fight all you can,
And self-dissolution is barred;
In hunger and woe, oh it's easy to blow--
It's the hell served for breakfast that's hard.

You're sick of the game? Well now, that's a shame!
You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
You've had a raw deal, I know, but don't squeal.
Buck up, do your damnedest and fight!
It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard;
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit--
It's the keeping your chin up that's hard.

It's easy to cry that you're beaten and die,
It's easy to crawfish and crawl,
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight,
Why, that's the best game of them all.
And though you come out of each grueling bout,
All broken and beaten and scarred--
Just have one more try. It's dead easy to die,
It's the keeping on living that's hard.

-Robert W. Service

It Couldn't Be Done

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 06:45:00 +0000

Image by zoompict (thanks,i got a pro account gift ) via Flickr

After a thing has been done, everybody is ready to declare it easy. But
before it has been done, it is called impossible. One reason why people
fear to embark upon great enterprises is that they see all the
difficulties at once. They know they could succeed in the initial tasks,
but they shrink from what is to follow. Yet "a thing begun is half done." Moreover the surmounting of the first barrier gives strength and ingenuity for the harder ones beyond. Mountains viewed from a distance seem to be unscalable. But they can be climbed, and the way to begin is to take the first upward step. From that moment the mountains are less high. As Hannibal led his army across the foothills, then among the upper ranges, and finally over the loftiest peaks and passes of the
Alps, or as Peary pushed farther and farther into the solitudes that encompass the North Pole, so can you achieve any purpose whatsoever if you heed not the doubters, meet each problem as it arises, and keep ever with you the assurance It Can Be Done.

Somebody said that it couldn't be done,
But he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one
Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that;
At least no one ever has done it";
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
That "cannot be done," and you'll do it.

-Edgar A. Guest

IF (by Rudyard Kipling)

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 06:44:00 +0000

Image by Robert Scott Photography.ca via Flickr

The central idea of this poem is that success comes from self-control
and a true sense of the values of things. In extremes lies danger. A man
must not lose heart because of doubts or opposition, yet he must do his
best to see the grounds for both. He must not be deceived into thinking
either triumph or disaster final; he must use each wisely--and push on.
In all things he must hold to the golden mean. If he does, he will own
the world, and even better, for his personal reward he will attain the
full stature of manhood.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them; "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

-Rudyard Kipling

Four Things

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 06:42:00 +0000

What are the qualities of ideal manhood? Various people have given
various answers to this question. Here the poet states what qualities he
thinks indispensable.

Four things a man must learn to do
If he would make his record true:
To think without confusion clearly;
To love his fellow-men sincerely;
To act from honest motives purely;
To trust in God and Heaven securely.

-Henry Van Dyke

THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

abbiejoice@yahoo.com (Jocelyn Soriano) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 06:33:00 +0000

This poem has as its keynote friendship and sympathy for other people.
It is a paradox of life that by hoarding love and happiness we lose
them, and that only by giving them away can we keep them for ourselves.
The more we share, the more we possess. We of course find in other
people weaknesses and sins, but our best means of curing these are
through a wise and sympathetic understanding.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by--
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban;--
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears--
Both parts of an infinite plan;--
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead
And mountains of wearisome height;
And the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by--
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish--so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat
Or hurl the cynic's ban?--
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

-Sam Walter Foss.