Fun Poetry Thread!

[iWriteStuff]

Care to share any good poems you've read lately? I feel like sharing a few I've been caught by lately.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.

And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again,
He'd tear me where he stands.

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
My native Land — Good Night!

― Lord Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

[eddie]

A Summer Day.jpg (51.87 KiB) Viewed 5348 times

[eddie]

Care to share any good poems you've read lately? I feel like sharing a few I've been caught by lately.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.

And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again,
He'd tear me where he stands.

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
My native Land — Good Night!



― Lord Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

( I'm sure glad that when you were lifted up, you decided to come back. By the way, did you get a harp or an accordian? Very telling)

Heaven.jpg (96.98 KiB) Viewed 5242 times

[iWriteStuff]

O, eddie, this doth I dedicate to thy memory:

Don't Change On My Account

If you're sloppy, that's just fine.
If you're moody, I won't mind.
If you're fat, that's fine with me.
If you're skinny, let it be.
If you're bossy, that's alright.
If you're nasty, I won't fight.
If you're rough, well that's just you.
If you're mean, that's alright too.
Whatever you are is all okay.
I don't like you anyway.
- Shel Silverstein

jk! I've missed your mirth.

I haven't been gone. Just busy. I've been a participant observer in Forum Life, but not much more.

[DesertWonderer2]

Anything by Edgar Allen Poe is awesome.

[iWriteStuff]

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

- Robert Frost

[nightlight]

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

by William Ernest Henley

[iWriteStuff]

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

by William Ernest Henley

Not even kidding, that poem is pinned beneath my main monitor at work. The back story behind that poem is just as strong as the words themselves. Good choice!

[EmmaLee]

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

by William Ernest Henley

Not even kidding, that poem is pinned beneath my main monitor at work. The back story behind that poem is just as strong as the words themselves. Good choice!

Have you read Apostle Orson Whitney's response to Henley's Invictus?

The Soul's Captain

Art thou in truth?
Then what of him who bought thee with his blood?
Who plunged into devouring seas
And snatched thee from the flood

Who bore for all our fallen race
What none but him could bear--
The God who died that man might live
And endless glory share.

Of what avail thy vaunted strength
Apart from his vast might?
Pray that his light may pierce the gloom
That thou mayest see aright.

Men are as bubbles on the wave,
As leaves upon the tree,
Thou, captain of thy soul! Forsooth,
Who gave that place to thee?

Free will is thine--free agency,
To wield for right or wrong;
But thou must answer unto him
To whom all souls belong.

Bend to the dust that “head unbowed”,
Small part of life’s great whole,
And see in him and him alone,
The captain of thy soul. ~~ Orson F. Whitney

And also speaking of Invictus, President Gordon B. Hinkley said -

"It is a great poem. It places upon the individual the responsibility for what he does with his life. Through these many years, when I have been faced with difficult choices I have repeated these stirring words. But on the other hand, it may sound arrogant and conceited in terms of the Atonement. Orson F. Whitney, of the Quorum of the Twelve of many years ago, so regarded it and wrote a marvelous response using the same poetic meter and entitling his verse “The Soul’s Captain.” So it is. When all is said and done, when all the legions of the ages have passed in review, when man’s terrible inhumanity to man has been chronicled, when God’s great love for His children has been measured, then above all stands the lone figure of Jesus Christ, the Redeemer of the world, the Savior of mankind, the living Son of the living God, the Prince of Peace, the Holy One." (First Presidency Christmas Devotional, December 3, 2000)

Both poems give great food for thought!

[iWriteStuff]

Both poems give great food for thought!

Here's the context of the poem:

Invictus, meaning unconquerable in Latin, is the ideal word to express the overall meaning of William Henley's poem.

Henley actually wrote this poem after he went through a very painful and difficult situation. When he was young, Henley was diagnosed with tuberculosis of the bone, which is an infection that can affect almost any part of the body (George Shiffman). In Henley's case, this disease caused him to undergo an amputation of his leg below the knee. This amputation was said to be very painful, because aesthetics were not used in the procedure. When Henley was told that another operation would have to be done on his other leg, he decided to enlist in the help of another doctor named Joseph Lister. After being under Lister's care, Henley was able to keep his other leg and put his disease to rest for 30 years. ("William Ernest Henley 1849-1903"). This experience, along with an impoverished childhood, motivated Henley to write invictus and played a major role in the theme and tone of the poem. Signs of Henley being in pain from his disease, but not giving up, are evident throughout this composition.

The speaker began invictus by using personification to portray that he was in a time of suffering but still undefeated. He stated that the night covered him, which gave night a human characteristc and stood for something more. The night that covered the speaker stood for the despondent time that he was in. 'Black as the pit from pole to pole' was also a simile that stood for the pit or hole of misery in which the speaker felt trapped. However, the last sentence of this stanza 'I thank whatever Gods may be For my unconquerable soul' showed that even though he was suffering, the speaker was still unconquered.

In the next two stanzas the speaker showed his courage and will to survive. He directly stated 'In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud' meaning that even though he was in a tough situation, he didn't express his misery. This and the line after it also used alliteration to effect the sound of the poem. He then showed, like the first stanza, that although he had enormous discomfort(my head is bloody), the speaker did not give up and continued to endure through his struggles in life. After this stanza, the speaker once more showed his bravery and undaunted attitude by stating he was unafraid of death. The 'horror of the shade' may literally mean a shadow or shade, but I feel it is a connotation meaning death. Then he directly stated 'finds, and shall find, me unafraid.'

Finally, in Henley's last stanza he wrote ' it matters not how straight the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: the captain of my soul.' Henley wanted to portray that the speaker didn't care about what was to come in life and what consequences he would have to face. For he was in charge of his life and could decide what he wanted to make of it.

Henley conveyed in Invictus that it is always possible to prevail through misery and anguish in life.

https://sites.google.com/site/jreedeshs ... s-analysis

I'd say this poem, combined with a heavy reliance on faith in the Atonement, brought me through some of the toughest periods of my life. I prefer to think of it as "anti-surrender to the powers of darkness" rather than a declaration that I can stand on my own two feet since clearly the author didn't even have two feet to stand on.

FWIW I always considered Elder Whitney's response a somewhat unnecessary rebuke. Henley wasn't saying he didn't need the Savior or that he could do it all on his own. He was a teenage kid trying to be brave as he lost his legs, removed without the use of any painkillers.

[EmmaLee]

Yep, I've read that before - inspiring (reminds me somewhat of Joseph Smith's experience as a young lad). So you think Whitney's rebuttal (may be too strong a word) and Hinckley's thoughts are off or not pertinent? Or perhaps trying to reign in something that didn't really need reigning in? I see many good and true attributes in both poems! And LOL on the feet quip.

I just saw your last comment. I get it.

[iWriteStuff]

Yep, I've read that before - inspiring. So you think Whitney's rebuttal (may be too strong a word) and Hinckley's thoughts are off or not pertinent? I see many good and true attributes in both poems! And LOL on the feet quip.

I like Elder Whitney's version for what it aspires to say. I also like Pres. Hinckley's words on it. I just think they may have missed the context.

They are attempting to take a popular poem and steer the narrative to Christ, which is good. Otherwise it would just come across as a hit job on a teenage amputee poet.

[EmmaLee]

One of the most poignant and touching poems ever written, IMO; especially the bolded part. Long, but worth the read!

Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
William Wordsworth, 1770 - 1850

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong.

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,—
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng.
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday;—
Thou child of joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
Shepherd-boy!

Ye blesséd Creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.
O evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning
This sweet May-morning;
And the children are culling
On every side
In a thousand valleys far and wide
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,

And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm:—
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
—But there’s a tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have look’d upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature’s priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a mother’s mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely nurse doth all she can
To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years’ darling of a pigmy size!
See, where ‘mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,
With light upon him from his father’s eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue

To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his ‘humorous stage’
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul’s immensity;
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,—
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths rest

Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the day, a master o’er a slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;
To whom the grave

Is but a lonely bed, without the sense of sight
Of day or the warm light,
A place of thoughts where we in waiting lie;
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
0 joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That Nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest,
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—
—Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings,
Blank misgivings of a creature

Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts, before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
Uphold us—cherish—and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor man nor boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence, in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither;
Can in a moment travel thither—
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then, sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound!
We, in thought, will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And 0, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish’d one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway;
I love the brooks which down their channels fret
Even more than when I tripp’d lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day
Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

[True]

This one is not deep but nostalgic. I love this one:


When the Frost is on the Punkin
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY (1849-1916)
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ...
I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—
I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

[nightlight]

Yep, I've read that before - inspiring. So you think Whitney's rebuttal (may be too strong a word) and Hinckley's thoughts are off or not pertinent? I see many good and true attributes in both poems! And LOL on the feet quip.

I like Elder Whitney's version for what it aspires to say. I also like Pres. Hinckley's words on it. I just think they may have missed the context.

They are attempting to take a popular poem and steer the narrative to Christ, which is good. Otherwise it would just come across as a hit job on a teenage amputee poet.

I didn't even know about all that with our GA.
I just know it's always spoken to me. For me it is a poem about our Probation on Earth. Satan is the prince of our world, life is hard and sad. People's choices and sins (including our own)can hurt us. Life can take from us.but no matter the consequences in choosing this Mortal Probation we are still the masters of Our Fate. We can choose Happiness and Life Eternal (Christ)or sadness, sin and death. But it's on us to choose.

[Elizabeth]

The SUM of Us. ©

We have a choice
In those who follow,
But not in those we follow.

They were rough
They were tough,
But times were too.

Though everything
They may have been,
We now are not.

The thread that binds
Turns back our minds
To seek their times.

They and theirs …
The times they’ve shared
We … can not.

But share we do
Those precious springs ...
Their Wells of Life, are You.

© Janadele Ryman Stewart. <: )))>><
.

[Michelle]

Good Timber
by Douglas Malloch
The tree that never had to fight
For sun and sky and air and light,
But stood out in the open plain
And always got its share of rain,
Never became a forest king
But lived and died a scrubby thing.

The man who never had to toil
To gain and farm his patch of soil,
Who never had to win his share
Of sun and sky and light and air,
Never became a manly man
But lived and died as he began.

Good timber does not grow with ease:
The stronger wind, the stronger trees;
The further sky, the greater length;
The more the storm, the more the strength.
By sun and cold, by rain and snow,
In trees and men good timbers grow.

Where thickest lies the forest growth,
We find the patriarchs of both.
And they hold counsel with the stars
Whose broken branches show the scars
Of many winds and much of strife.
This is the common law of life.

I head this poem as a young woman at church. I asked my teacher for a copy and memorized it. Just last night I was quoting it to my husband. Fun to see this thread and have another place to share it.

[solonan]

The Fool’s Prayer
by Edward Rowland Sill (1841-1887)

The royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”

The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the monarch’s silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: “O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

“No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

“’Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
’Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.

“These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.

“The ill-timed truth we might have kept —
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say —
Who knows how grandly it had rung?

“Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders — oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!”

The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
“Be merciful to me, a fool!”

I have kept this poem in my scriptures for 40+ years now. Mostly to remind me to be mindful of others

[eddie]

O, eddie, this doth I dedicate to thy memory:

Don't Change On My Account

If you're sloppy, that's just fine.
If you're moody, I won't mind.
If you're fat, that's fine with me.
If you're skinny, let it be.
If you're bossy, that's alright.
If you're nasty, I won't fight.
If you're rough, well that's just you.
If you're mean, that's alright too.
Whatever you are is all okay.
I don't like you anyway.
- Shel Silverstein

jk! I've missed your mirth.

I haven't been gone. Just busy. I've been a participant observer in Forum Life, but not much more.

Welcome back to mirth and frivolity!

Poem.jpg (8.86 KiB) Viewed 3761 times

[Elizabeth]

FORESIGHT. ©

We sorrow for what might have been
If only this, if only that.
But none of this will take us back
To change a thing along the track.

But surely we can strive today
To reassess and plan our way.
In hopes we won’t have need to say
If only this, if only that.

Live your life along the way …
Don’t wait until another day
To do the things you ought to do,
For time is short, and flies away.

© Janadele Ryman Stewart. <: )))>><

.

[iWriteStuff]

Elizabeth - that poem made me think of this one:

If
BY RUDYARD KIPLING

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 impostors 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!

[marc]

I shared this on the forum seven years ago:

The Gods of the Copybook Headings
Rudyard Kipling, 1835-1936

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place;
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four —
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man —
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began: —
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

[nightlight]

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallow'd in, a score?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;
And, having done that, thou hast done;
I fear no more.

by John Donne

[Thinker]

Emily Dickinson:
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 15:
When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

[Elizabeth]

DISMISS the NIGHT. ©

Captured dawn
At hush of dawning,
Stills the morn ...
Before its’ stirring, warming rays
Dismiss the cloak of night.

This morning ...
Light dances
Within raindrops,
A liquid treasure
Fallen from the sky.

Still other mornings, sharp and clear
A cobweb lace appears ...
Dew drops glisten in the light.
Whilst floating high ...
Roll on the mists of night.

© Janadele Ryman Stewart. <: )))>><

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