Famous Inspirational Poems
| Enjoy these
everlasting inspirational poems from some of our most famous poets. |
Friendship I think awhile of Love, and while I think, Love is to me a world, Sole meat and sweetest drink, And close connecting link Tween heaven and earth. I only know it is, not how or why, My greatest happiness; However hard I try, Not if I were to die, Can I explain. I fain would ask my friend how it can be, But when the time arrives, Then Love is more lovely Than anything to me, And so I'm dumb. For if the truth were known, Love cannot speak, But only thinks and does; Though surely out 'twill leak Without the help of Greek, Or any tongue. A man may love the truth and practise it, Beauty he may admire, And goodness not omit, As much as may befit To reverence. But only when these three together meet, As they always incline, And make one soul the seat, And favorite retreat, Of loveliness; When under kindred shape, like loves and hates And a kindred nature, Proclaim us to be mates, Exposed to equal fates Eternally; And each may other help, and service do, Drawing Love's bands more tight, Service he ne'er shall rue While one and one make two, And two are one; In such case only doth man fully prove Fully as man can do, What power there is in Love His inmost soul to move Resistlessly. Two sturdy oaks I mean, which side by side, Withstand the winter's storm, And spite of wind and tide, Grow up the meadow's pride, For both are strong Above they barely touch, but undermined Down to their deepest source, Admiring you shall find Their roots are intertwined Insep'rably. by Henry David Thoreau |
| Nature O Nature! I do not aspire To be the highest in thy choir, - To be a meteor in thy sky, Or comet that may range on high; Only a zephyr that may blow Among the reeds by the river low; Give me thy most privy place Where to run my airy race. In some withdrawn, unpublic mead Let me sigh upon a reed, Or in the woods, with leafy din, Whisper the still evening in: Some still work give me to do, - Only - be it near to you! For I'd rather be thy child And pupil, in the forest wild, Than be the king of men elsewhere, And most sovereign slave of care; To have one moment of thy dawn, Than share the city's year forlorn. by Henry David Thoreau |
| Song
Of Nature Mine are the night and morning, The pits of air, the gull of space, The sportive sun, the gibbous moon, The innumerable days. I hide in the solar glory, I am dumb in the pealing song, I rest on the pitch of the torrent, In slumber I am strong. No numbers have counted my tallies, No tribes my house can fill, I sit by the shining Fount of Life And pour the deluge still; And ever by delicate powers Gathering along the centuries From race on race the rarest flowers, My wreath shall nothing miss. And many a thousand summers My gardens ripened well, And light from meliorating stars With firmer glory fell. I wrote the past in characters Of rock and fire the scroll, The building in the coral sea, The planting of the coal. And thefts from satellites and rings And broken stars I drew, And out of spent and aged things I formed the world anew; What time the gods kept carnival, Tricked out in star and flower, And in cramp elf and saurian forms They swathed their too much power. Time and Thought were my surveyors, They laid their courses well, They boiled the sea, and piled the layers Of granite, marl and shell. But he, the man-child glorious, - Where tarries he the while? The rainbow shines his harbinger, The sunset gleams his smile. My boreal lights leap upward, Forthright my planets roll, And still the man-child is not born, The summit of the whole. Must time and tide forever run? Will never my winds go sleep in the west? Will never my wheels which whirl the sun And satellites have rest? Too much of donning and doffing, Too slow the rainbow fades, I weary of my robe of snow, My leaves and my cascades; I tire of globes and races, Too long the game is played; What without him is summer's pomp, Or winter's frozen shade? I travail in pain for him, My creatures travail and wait; His couriers come by squadrons, He comes not to the gate. Twice I have moulded an image, And thrice outstretched my hand, Made one of day and one of night And one of the salt sea-sand. One in a Judaean manger, And one by Avon stream, One over against the mouths of Nile, And one in the Academe. I moulded kings and saviors, And bards o'er kings to rule; - But fell the starry influence short, The cup was never full. by Henry David Thoreau |
| Let
Such Pure Hate Still Underprop Let such pure hate still underprop Our love, that we may be Each other's conscience, And have our sympathy Mainly from thence. We'll one another treat like gods, And all the faith we have In virtue and in truth, bestow On either, and suspicion leave To gods below. Two solitary stars— Unmeasured systems far Between us roll; But by our conscious light we are Determined to one pole. What need confound the sphere?— Love can afford to wait; For it no hour's too late That witnesseth one duty's end, Or to another doth beginning lend. It will subserve no use, More than the tints of flowers; Only the independent guest Frequents its bowers, Inherits its bequest. No speech, though kind, has it; But kinder silence doles Unto its mates; By night consoles, By day congratulates. What saith the tongue to tongue? What hearest ear of ear? By the decrees of fate From year to year, Does it communicate. Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns; No trivial bridge of words, Or arch of boldest span, Can leap the moat that girds The sincere man. No show of bolts and bars Can keep the foeman out, Or 'scape his secret mine, Who entered with the doubt That drew the line. No warder at the gate Can let the friendly in; But, like the sun, o'er all He will the castle win, And shine along the wall. There's nothing in the world I know That can escape from love, For every depth it goes below, And every height above. It waits, as waits the sky, Until the clouds go by, Yet shines serenely on With an eternal day, Alike when they are gone, And when they stay. Implacable is Love— Foes may be bought or teased From their hostile intent, But he goes unappeased Who is on kindness bent. by Henry David Thoreau |
| I
Knew A Man By Sight I knew a man by sight, A blameless wight, Who, for a year or more, Had daily passed my door, Yet converse none had had with him. I met him in a lane, Him and his cane, About three miles from home, Where I had chanced to roam, And volumes stared at him, and he at me. In a more distant place I glimpsed his face, And bowed instinctively; Starting he bowed to me, Bowed simultaneously, and passed along. Next, in a foreign land I grasped his hand, And had a social chat, About this thing and that, As I had known him well a thousand years. Late in a wilderness I shared his mess, For he had hardships seen, And I a wanderer been; He was my bosom friend, and I was his. And as, methinks, shall all, Both great and small, That ever lived on earth, Early or late their birth, Stranger and foe, one day each other know. by Henry David Thoreau |
| Prayer Great God, I ask for no meaner pelf Than that I may not disappoint myself, That in my action I may soar as high As I can now discern with this clear eye. And next in value, which thy kindness lends, That I may greatly disappoint my friends, Howe'er they think or hope that it may be, They may not dream how thou'st distinguished me. That my weak hand may equal my firm faith And my life practice what my tongue saith That my low conduct may not show Nor my relenting lines That I thy purpose did not know Or overrated thy designs. by Henry David Thoreau |
| Inspiration Whate'er we leave to God, God does, And blesses us; The work we choose should be our own, God leaves alone. If with light head erect I sing, Though all the Muses lend their force, From my poor love of anything, The verse is weak and shallow as its source. But if with bended neck I grope Listening behind me for my wit, With faith superior to hope, More anxious to keep back than forward it; Making my soul accomplice there Unto the flame my heart hath lit, Then will the verse forever wear— Time cannot bend the line which God hath writ. Always the general show of things Floats in review before my mind, And such true love and reverence brings, That sometimes I forget that I am blind. But now there comes unsought, unseen, Some clear divine electuary, And I, who had but sensual been, Grow sensible, and as God is, am wary. I hearing get, who had but ears, And sight, who had but eyes before, I moments live, who lived but years, And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore. I hear beyond the range of sound, I see beyond the range of sight, New earths and skies and seas around, by Henry David Thoreau |
| The
Inward Morning Packed in my mind lie all the clothes Which outward nature wears, And in its fashion's hourly change It all things else repairs. In vain I look for change abroad, And can no difference find, Till some new ray of peace uncalled Illumes my inmost mind. What is it gilds the trees and clouds, And paints the heavens so gay, But yonder fast-abiding light With its unchanging ray? Lo, when the sun streams through the wood, Upon a winter's morn, Where'er his silent beams intrude, The murky night is gone. How could the patient pine have known The morning breeze would come, Or humble flowers anticipate The insect's noonday hum— Till the new light with morning cheer From far streamed through the aisles, And nimbly told the forest trees For many stretching miles? I've heard within my inmost soul Such cheerful morning news, In the horizon of my mind Have seen such orient hues, As in the twilight of the dawn, When the first birds awake, Are heard within some silent wood, Where they the small twigs break, Or in the eastern skies are seen, Before the sun appears, The harbingers of summer heats Which from afar he bears. by Henry David Thoreau |
| Conscience Conscience is instinct bred in the house, Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin By an unnatural breeding in and in. I say, Turn it out doors, Into the moors. I love a life whose plot is simple, And does not thicken with every pimple, A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it, That makes the universe no worse than 't finds it. I love an earnest soul, Whose mighty joy and sorrow Are not drowned in a bowl, And brought to life to-morrow; That lives one tragedy, And not seventy; A conscience worth keeping; Laughing not weeping; A conscience wise and steady, And forever ready; Not changing with events, Dealing in compliments; A conscience exercised about Large things, where one may doubt. I love a soul not all of wood, Predestinated to be good, But true to the backbone Unto itself alone, And false to none; Born to its own affairs, Its own joys and own cares; By whom the work which God begun Is finished, and not undone; Taken up where he left off, Whether to worship or to scoff; If not good, why then evil, If not good god, good devil. Goodness! you hypocrite, come out of that, Live your life, do your work, then take your hat. I have no patience towards Such conscientious cowards. Give me simple laboring folk, Who love their work, Whose virtue is song To cheer God along. by Henry David Thoreau |
| The
Fisher’s Boy MY life is like a stroll upon the beach, As near the ocean’s edge as I can go; My tardy steps its waves sometimes o’erreach, Sometimes I stay to let them overflow. My sole employment is, and scrupulous care, To place my gains beyond the reach of tides,— Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare, Which Ocean kindly to my hand confides. I have but few companions on the shore: They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea; Yet oft I think the ocean they’ve sailed o’er Is deeper known upon the strand to me. The middle sea contains no crimson dulse, Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view; Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew. by Henry David Thoreau |
| On
The Pulse Of Morning A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since departed, Mark the mastodon. The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here On our planet floor, Any broad alarm of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages. But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you may stand upon my Back and face your distant destiny, But seek no haven in my shadow. I will give you no hiding place down here. You, created only a little lower than The angels, have crouched too long in The bruising darkness, Have lain too long Face down in ignorance. Your mouths spelling words Armed for slaughter. The rock cries out today, you may stand on me, But do not hide your face. Across the wall of the world, A river sings a beautiful song, Come rest here by my side. Each of you a bordered country, Delicate and strangely made proud, Yet thrusting perpetually under siege. Your armed struggles for profit Have left collars of waste upon My shore, currents of debris upon my breast. Yet, today I call you to my riverside, If you will study war no more. Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs The Creator gave to me when I And the tree and stone were one. Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow And when you yet knew you still knew nothing. The river sings and sings on. There is a true yearning to respond to The singing river and the wise rock. So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew, The African and Native American, the Sioux, The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek, The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh, The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, The privileged, the homeless, the teacher. They hear. They all hear The speaking of the tree. Today, the first and last of every tree Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river. Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river. Each of you, descendant of some passed on Traveller, has been paid for. You, who gave me my first name, You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, Then forced on bloody feet, Left me to the employment of other seekers— Desperate for gain, starving for gold. You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot… You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare Praying for a dream. Here, root yourselves beside me. I am the tree planted by the river, Which will not be moved. I, the rock, I the river, I the tree I am yours—your passages have been paid. Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need For this bright morning dawning for you. History, despite its wrenching pain, Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage, Need not be lived again. Lift up your eyes upon The day breaking for you. Give birth again To the dream. Women, children, men, Take it into the palms of your hands. Mold it into the shape of your most Private need. Sculpt it into The image of your most public self. Lift up your hearts. Each new hour holds new chances For new beginnings. Do not be wedded forever To fear, yoked eternally To brutishness. The horizon leans forward, Offering you space to place new steps of change. Here, on the pulse of this fine day You may have the courage To look up and out upon me, The rock, the river, the tree, your country. No less to Midas than the mendicant. No less to you now than the mastodon then. Here on the pulse of this new day You may have the grace to look up and out And into your sister's eyes, Into your brother's face, your country And say simply Very simply With hope Good morning. by Maya Angelou |
| Remembrance Your hands easy weight, teasing the bees hived in my hair, your smile at the slope of my cheek. On the occasion, you press above me, glowing, spouting readiness, mystery rapes my reason When you have withdrawn your self and the magic, when only the smell of your love lingers between my breasts, then, only then, can I greedily consume your presence. by Maya Angelou |
| The
Lesson I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs, Rotting flesh and worms do Not convince me against The challenge. The years And cold defeat live deep in Lines along my face. They dull my eyes, yet I keep on dying, Because I love to live. by Maya Angelou |
| A
Conceit Give me your hand Make room for me to lead and follow you beyond this rage of poetry. Let others have the privacy of touching words and love of loss of love. For me Give me your hand by Maya Angelou |
| Weekend
Glory Some clichty folks don't know the facts, posin' and preenin' and puttin' on acts, stretchin' their backs. They move into condos up over the ranks, pawn their souls to the local banks. Buying big cars they can't afford, ridin' around town actin' bored. If they want to learn how to live life right they ought to study me on Saturday night. My job at the plant ain't the biggest bet, but I pay my bills and stay out of debt. I get my hair done for my own self's sake, so I don't have to pick and I don't have to rake. Take the church money out and head cross town to my friend girl's house where we plan our round. We meet our men and go to a joint where the music is blue and to the point. Folks write about me. They just can't see how I work all week at the factory. Then get spruced up and laugh and dance And turn away from worry with sassy glance. They accuse me of livin' from day to day, but who are they kiddin'? So are they. My life ain't heaven but it sure ain't hell. I'm not on top but I call it swell if I'm able to work and get paid right and have the luck to be Black on a Saturday night. by Maya Angelou |
| Savior Petulant priests, greedy centurions, and one million incensed gestures stand between your love and me. Your agape sacrifice is reduced to colored glass, vapid penance, and the tedium of ritual. Your footprints yet mark the crest of billowing seas but your joy fades upon the tablets of ordained prophets. Visit us again, Savior. Your children, burdened with disbelief, blinded by a patina of wisdom, carom down this vale of fear. We cry for you although we have lost your name. by Maya Angelou |
| Touched
By An Angel We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of loneliness until love leaves its high holy temple and comes into our sight to liberate us into life. Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies old memories of pleasure ancient histories of pain. Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls. We are weaned from our timidity In the flush of love's light we dare be brave And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free. by Maya Angelou |
| Old
Folks Laugh They have spent their content of simpering, holding their lips this and that way, winding the lines between their brows. Old folks allow their bellies to jiggle like slow tambourines. The hollers rise up and spill over any way they want. When old folks laugh, they free the world. They turn slowly, slyly knowing the best and the worst of remembering. Saliva glistens in the corners of their mouths, their heads wobble on brittle necks, but their laps are filled with memories. When old folks laugh, they consider the promise of dear painless death, and generously forgive life for happening to them. by Maya Angelou |
| Still
I Rise You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries. Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise. by Maya Angelou |
| Alone Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone I came up with one thing And I don't believe I'm wrong That nobody, But nobody Can make it out here alone. Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone. There are some millionaires With money they can't use Their wives run round like banshees Their children sing the blues They've got expensive doctors To cure their hearts of stone. But nobody No, nobody Can make it out here alone. Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone. Now if you listen closely I'll tell you what I know Storm clouds are gathering The wind is gonna blow The race of man is suffering And I can hear the moan, 'Cause nobody, But nobody Can make it out here alone. Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone. by Maya Angelou |
| Woman
Work I've got the children to tend The clothes to mend The floor to mop The food to shop Then the chicken to fry The baby to dry I got company to feed The garden to weed I've got shirts to press The tots to dress The cane to be cut I gotta clean up this hut Then see about the sick And the cotton to pick. Shine on me, sunshine Rain on me, rain Fall softly, dewdrops And cool my brow again. Storm, blow me from here With your fiercest wind Let me float across the sky 'Til I can rest again. Fall gently, snowflakes Cover me with white Cold icy kisses and Let me rest tonight. Sun, rain, curving sky Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone Star shine, moon glow You're all that I can call my own. by Maya Angelou |
| I
Know Why The Caged Bird Sings The free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wings in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with fearful trill of the things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom The free bird thinks of another breeze and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own. But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom. by Maya Angelou |
| Phenomenal
Woman Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It's the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed. I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing It ought to make you proud. I say, It's in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need of my care, 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me by Maya Angelou |
| Two
Kinds of Intelligence There are two kinds of intelligence: one acquired, as a child in school memorizes facts and concepts from books and from what the teacher says, collecting information from the traditional sciences as well as from the new sciences. With such intelligence you rise in the world. You get ranked ahead or behind others in regard to your competence in retaining information. You stroll with this intelligence in and out of fields of knowledge, getting always more marks on your preserving tablets. There is another kind of tablet, one already completed and preserved inside you. A spring overflowing its springbox. A freshness in the center of the chest. This other intelligence does not turn yellow or stagnate. It's fluid, and it doesn't move from outside to inside through conduits of plumbing-learning. This second knowing is a fountainhead from within you, moving out. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| Light
Breeze As regards feeling pain, like a hand cut in battle, consider the body a robe you wear. When you meet someone you love, do you kiss their clothes? Search out who's inside. Union with God is sweeter than body comforts. We have hands and feet different from these. Sometimes in dream we see them. That is not illusion. It's seeing truly. You do have a spirit body; don't dread leaving the physical one. Sometimes someone feels this truth so strongly that he or she can live in mountain solitude totally refreshed. The worried, heroic doings of men and women seem weary and futile to dervishes enjoying the light breeze of spirit. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| The
beauty of the heart The beauty of the heart is the lasting beauty: its lips give to drink of the water of life. Truly it is the water, that which pours, and the one who drinks. All three become one when your talisman is shattered. That oneness you can't know by reasoning. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| Let
go of your worries Let go of your worries and be completely clear-hearted, like the face of a mirror that contains no images. If you want a clear mirror, behold yourself and see the shameless truth, which the mirror reflects. If metal can be polished to a mirror-like finish, what polishing might the mirror of the heart require? Between the mirror and the heart is this single difference: the heart conceals secrets, while the mirror does not. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| This
is love This is love: to fly toward a secret sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment. First, to let go of live. In the end, to take a step without feet; to regard this world as invisible, and to disregard what appears to be the self. Heart, I said, what a gift it has been to enter this circle of lovers, to see beyond seeing itself, to reach and feel within the breast. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| Sleep
of the Body the Soul's Awakening Every night Thou freest our spirits from the body And its snare, making them pure as rased tablets. Every night spirits are released from this cage, And set free, neither lording it nor lorded over. At night prisoners are unaware of their prison, At night kings are unaware of their majesty. Then there is no thought or care for loss or gain, No regard to such an one or such an one. The state of the "Knower" is such as this, even when awake. God says,4 "Thou wouldst deem him awake though asleep, Sleeping to the affairs of the world, day and night, Like a pen in the directing hand of the writer. He who sees not the hand which effects the writing Fancies the effect proceeds from the motion of the pen. If the "Knower" revealed the particulars of this state, 'Twould rob the vulgar of their sensual sleep. His soul wanders in the desert that has no similitude; Like his body, his spirit is enjoying perfect rest; Freed from desire of eating and drinking, Like a bird escaped from cage and snare. But when he is again beguiled into the snare, He cries for help to the Almighty. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| Not
Intrigued With Evening What the material world values does not shine the same in the truth of the soul. You have been interested in your shadow. Look instead directly at the sun. What can we know by just watching the time-and-space shapes of each other? Someone half awake in the night sees imaginary dangers; the morning star rises; the horizon grows defined; people become friends in a moving caravan. Night birds may think daybreak a kind of darkness, because that's all they know. It's a fortunate bird who's not intrigued with evening, who flies in the sun we call Shams. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| Any
Soul That Drank the Nectar Any soul that drank the nectar of your passion was lifted. From that water of life he is in a state of elation. Death came, smelled me, and sensed your fragrance instead. From then on, death lost all hope of me. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| There
is a Way There is a way between voice and presence where information flows. In disciplined silence it opens. With wandering talk it closes. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| Love
is reckless Love is reckless; not reason. Reason seeks a profit. Love comes on strong, consuming herself, unabashed. Yet, in the midst of suffering, Love proceeds like a millstone, hard surfaced and straightforward. Having died of self-interest, she risks everything and asks for nothing. Love gambles away every gift God bestows. Without cause God gave us Being; without cause, give it back again. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| Any
Lifetime Any lifetime that is spent without seeing the master Is either death in disguise or a deep sleep. The water that pollutes you is poison; The poison that purifies you is water. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| You
Personify God's Message You personify God's message. You reflect the King's face. There is nothing in the universe that you are not Everything you want, look for it within yourself— you are that. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| I
am a sculptor, a molder of form I am a sculptor, a molder of form. In every moment I shape an idol. But then, in front of you, I melt them down I can rouse a hundred forms and fill them with spirit, but when I look into your face, I want to throw them in the fire. My souls spills into yours and is blended. Because my soul has absorbed your fragrance, I cherish it. Every drop of blood I spill informs the earth, I merge with my Beloved when I participate in love. In this house of mud and water, my heart has fallen to ruins. Enter this house, my Love, or let me leave. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| If
You Show Patience If you show patience, I'll rid you of this virtue. If you fall asleep, I'll rub the sleep from your eyes. If you become a mountain, I'll melt you in fire. And if you become an ocean, I'll drink all your water. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| How
Long How long will you think about this painful life? How long will you think about this harmful world? The only thing it can take from you is your body. Don't say all this rubbish and stop thinking. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| Like
This If anyone asks you how the perfect satisfaction of all our sexual wanting will look, lift your face and say, Like this. When someone mentions the gracefulness of the nightsky, climb up on the roof and dance and say, Like this. If anyone wants to know what "spirit" is, or what "God’s fragrance" means, lean your head toward him or her. Keep your face there close. Like this. When someone quotes the old poetic image about clouds gradually uncovering the moon, slowly loosen knot by knot the strings of your robe. Like this. If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead, don’t try to explain the miracle. Kiss me on the lips. Like this. Like this. When someone asks what it means to "die for love," point here. If someone asks how tall I am, frown and measure with your fingers the space between the creases on your forehead. This tall. The soul sometimes leaves the body, the returns. When someone doesn’t believe that, walk back into my house. Like this. When lovers moan, they’re telling our story. Like this. I am a sky where spirits live. Stare into this deepening blue, while the breeze says a secret. Like this. When someone asks what there is to do, light the candle in his hand. Like this. How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob? Huuuuu. How did Jacob’s sight return? Huuuu. A little wind cleans the eyes. Like this. When Shams comes back from Tabriz, he’ll put just his head around the edge of the door to surprise us Like this. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| Not
Here There's courage involved if you want to become truth. There is a broken- open place in a lover. Where are those qualities of bravery and sharp compassion in this group? What's the use of old and frozen thought? I want a howling hurt. This is not a treasury where gold is stored; this is for copper. We alchemists look for talent that can heat up and change. Lukewarm won't do. Halfhearted holding back, well-enough getting by? Not here. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| There
is a life-force within your soul There is a life-force within your soul, seek that life. There is a gem in the mountain of your body, seek that mine. O traveler, if you are in search of That Don't look outside, look inside yourself and seek That. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| Birdsong Birdsong brings relief to my longing I'm just as ecstatic as they are, but with nothing to say! Please universal soul, practice some song or something through me! by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| In
love In love, aside from sipping the wine of timelessness, nothing else exists. There is no reason for living except for giving one's life. I said, "First I know you, then I die." He said, "For the one who knows Me, there is no dying." by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| I
See so Deeply Within Myself I see so deeply within myself. Not needing my eyes, I can see everything clearly. Why would I want to bother my eyes again Now that I see the world through His eyes? by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| Shadow
and Light Source Both How does a part of the world leave the world? How does wetness leave water? Dont' try to put out fire by throwing on more fire! Don't wash a wound with blood. No matter how fast you run, your shadow keeps up. Sometimes it's in front! Only full overhead sun diminishes your shadow. But that shadow has been serving you. What hurts you, blesses you. Darkness is your candle. Your boundaries are your quest. I could explain this, but it will break the glass cover on your heart, and there's no fixing that. You must have shadow and light source both. Listen, and lay your head under the tree of awe. When from that tree feathers and wings sprout on you, be quieter than a dove. Don't even open your mouth for even a coo. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| All
through eternity All through eternity Beauty unveils His exquisite form in the solitude of nothingness; He holds a mirror to His Face and beholds His own beauty. he is the knower and the known, the seer and the seen; No eye but His own has ever looked upon this Universe. His every quality finds an expression: Eternity becomes the verdant field of Time and Space; Love, the life-giving garden of this world. Every branch and leaf and fruit Reveals an aspect of His perfection- They cypress give hint of His majesty, The rose gives tidings of His beauty. Whenever Beauty looks, Love is also there; Whenever beauty shows a rosy cheek Love lights Her fire from that flame. When beauty dwells in the dark folds of night Love comes and finds a heart entangled in tresses. Beauty and Love are as body and soul. Beauty is the mine, Love is the diamond. They have together since the beginning of time- Side by side, step by step. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| The
Breeze at Dawn The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep. You must ask for what you really want. Don't go back to sleep. People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch. The door is round and open. Don't go back to sleep. by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
| Equipment Figure it out for yourself, my lad, You've all that the greatest of men have had, Two arms, two hands, two legs, two eyes, And a brain to use if you would be wise. With this equipment they all began, So start for the top and say "I can." Look them over, the wise and great, They take their food from a common plate And similar knives and forks they use, With similar laces they tie their shoes, The world considers them brave and smart. But you've all they had when they made their start. You can triumph and come to skill, You can be great if only you will, You're well equipped for what fight you choose, You have legs and arms and a brain to use, And the man who has risen, great deeds to do Began his life with no more than you. You are the handicap you must face, You are the one who must choose your place, You must say where you want to go. How much you will study the truth to know, God has equipped you for life, But He Lets you decide what you want to be. Courage must come from the soul within, The man must furnish the will to win, So figure it out for yourself, my lad, You were born with all that the great have had, With your equipment they all began. Get hold of yourself, and say: "I can." by Edgar Albert Guest |
| A Friend A friend is one who stands to share Your every touch of grief and care. He comes by chance, but stays by choice; Your praises he is quick to voice. No grievous fault or passing whim Can make an enemy of him. And though your need be great or small, His strength is yours throughout it all. No matter where your path may turn Your welfare is his chief concern. No matter what your dream may be He prays your triumph soon to see. There is no wish your tongue can tell But what it is your friend's as well. The life of him who has a friend Is double-guarded to the end. by Edgar Albert Guest |
| A Boy And His Dog A boy and his dog make a glorious pair: No better friendship is found anywhere, For they talk and they walk and they run and they play, And they have their deep secrets for many a day; And that boy has a comrade who thinks and who feels, Who walks down the road with a dog at his heels. He may go where he will and his dog will be there, May revel in mud and his dog will not care; Faithful he'll stay for the slightest command And bark with delight at the touch of his hand; Oh, he owns a treasure which nobody steals, Who walks down the road with a dog at his heels. No other can lure him away from his side; He's proof against riches and station and pride; Fine dress does not charm him, and flattery's breath Is lost on the dog, for he's faithful to death; He sees the great soul which the body conceals— Oh, it's great to be young with a dog at your heels! by Edgar Albert Guest |
| The Future "The worst is yet to come:" So wail the doubters glum, But here's the better view; "My best I've yet to do." The worst some always fear; To-morrow holds no cheer, Yet farther on life's lane Are joys you shall attain. Go forward bravely, then, And play your part as men, For this is ever true: "Our best we've yet to do." by Edgar Albert Guest |
| When Sorrow Comes When sorrow comes, as come it must, In God a man must place his trust. There is no power in mortal speech The anguish of his soul to reach, No voice, however sweet and low, Can comfort him or ease the blow. He cannot from his fellow men Take strength that will sustain him then. With all that kindly hands will do, And all that love may offer, too, He must believe throughout the test That God has willed it for the best. We who would be his friends are dumb; Words from our lips but feebly come; We feel, as we extend our hands, That one Power only understands And truly knows the reason why So beautiful a soul must die. We realize how helpless then Are all the gifts of mortal men. No words which we have power to say Can take the sting of grief away - That Power which marks the sparrow's fall Must comfort and sustain us all. When sorrow comes, as come it must, In God, a man must place his trust. With all the wealth which he may own, He cannot meet the test alone, And only he may stand serene Who has a faith on which to lean. by Edgar Albert Guest |
| Home And The Office Home is the place where the laughter should ring, And man should be found at his best. Let the cares of the day be as great as they may, The night has been fashioned for rest. So leave at the door when the toiling is o'er All the burdens of worktime behind, And just be a dad to your girl or your lad— A dad of the rollicking kind. The office is made for the tasks you must face; It is built for the work you must do; You may sit there and sigh as your cares pile up high, And no one may criticize you; You may worry and fret as you think of your debt, You may grumble when plans go astray, But when it comes night, and you shut your desk tight, Don't carry the burdens away. Keep daytime for toil and the nighttime for play, Work as hard as you choose in the town, But when the day ends, and the darkness descends, Just forget that you're wearing a frown— Go home with a smile! Oh, you'll find it worth while; Go home light of heart and of mind; Go home and be glad that you're loved as a dad, A dad of the fun-loving kind. by Edgar Albert Guest |
| No Better Land Than This If I knew a better country in this glorious world today Where a man's work hours are shorter and he's drawing bigger pay, If the Briton or the Frenchman had an easier life than mine, I'd pack my goods this minute and I'd sail across the brine. But I notice when an alien wants a land of hope and cheer, And a future for his children, he comes out and settles here. Here's the glorious land of Freedom! Here's the milk and honey goal For the peasant out of Russia, for the long-subjected Pole. It is here the sons of Italy and men of Austria turn For the comfort of their bodies and the wages they can earn. And with all that men complain of, and with all that goes amiss, There's no happier, better nation on the world's broad face than this. So I'm thinking when I listen to the wails of discontent, And some foreign disbeliever spreads his evil sentiment, That the breed of hate and envy that is sowing sin and shame In this glorious land of Freedom should go back from whence it came. And I hold it is the duty, rich or poor, of every man Who enjoys this country's bounty to be all American. by Edgar Albert Guest |
| Good Books Good books are friendly things to own. If you are busy they will wait. They will not call you on the phone Or wake you if the hour is late. They stand together row by row, Upon the low shelf or the high. But if you're lonesome this you know: You have a friend or two nearby. The fellowship of books is real. They're never noisy when you're still. They won't disturb you at your meal. They'll comfort you when you are ill. The lonesome hours they'll always share. When slighted they will not complain. And though for them you've ceased to care Your constant friends they'll still remain. Good books your faults will never see Or tell about them round the town. If you would have their company You merely have to take them down. They'll help you pass the time away, They'll counsel give if that you need. He has true friends for night and day Who has a few good books to read. by Edgar Albert Guest |
| The Scoutmaster There isn't any pay for you, you serve without reward, The boys who tramp the fields with you but little could afford. And yet your pay is richer far than those who toil for gold, For in a dozen different ways your service shall be told. You'll read it in the faces of a Troop of growing boys, You'll read it in the pleasure of a dozen manly joys, And down the distant future you will surely read it then, Emblazoned thru the service of a band of loyal men. Five years of willing labor and of brothering a Troop, Five years of trudging highways, with the Indian cry and whoop, Five years of campfires burning, not alone for pleasure's sake, But the future generation which the boys are soon to make. They have no gold to give you, but when age comes on to you They'll give you back the splendid things you taught them how to do They'll give you rich contentment and a thrill of honest pride And you'll see the nation prosper, and you'll all be satisfied. by Edgar Albert Guest |
| What We Need We were settin' there an' smokin' of our pipes, discussin' things, Like licker, votes for wimmin, an' the totterin'thrones o' kings, When he ups an' strokes his whiskers with his hand an' says t'me: "Changin' laws an' legislatures ain't, as fur as I can see, Goin' to make this world much better, unless somehow we can Find a way to make a better an' a finer sort o' man. "The trouble ain't with statutes or with systems—not at all; It's with humans jest like we air an' their petty ways an' small. We could stop our writin' law-books an' our regulatin' rules If a better sort of manhood was the product of our schools. For the things that we air needin' ain't no writin' from a pen Or bigger guns to shoot with, but a bigger type of men. "I reckon all these problems air jest ornery like the weeds. They grow in soil that oughta nourish only decent deeds, An' they waste our time an' fret us when, if we were thinkin' straight An' livin' right, they wouldn't be so terrible an' great. A good horse needs no snaffle, an' a good man, I opine, Doesn't need a law to check him or to force him into line. "If we ever start in teachin' to our children, year by year, How to live with one another, there'll be less o' trouble here. If we'd teach 'em how to neighbor an' to walk in honor's ways, We could settle every problem which the mind o' man can raise. What we're needin' isn't systems or some regulatin' plan, But a bigger an' a finer an' a truer type o' man." by Edgar Albert Guest |
| The Common Joys THESE joys are free to all who live The rich and poor, the great and low: The charms which kindness has to give, The smiles which friendship may bestow, The honor of a well-spent life, The glory of a purpose true, High courage in the stress of strife, And peace when every task is through. Nor class nor caste nor race nor creed, Nor greater might can take away The splendor of an honest deed. Who nobly serves from day to day Shall walk the road of life with pride, With friends who recognize his worth, For never are these joys denied Unto the humblest man on earth. Not all may rise to world-wide fame, Not all may gather fortune's gold, Not all life's luxuries may claim; In differing ways success is told. But all may know the peace of mind Which comes from service brave and true; The poorest man can still be kind, And nobly live till life is through. These joys abound for one and all: The pride of fearing no man's scorn, Of standing firm, where others fall, Of bearing well what must be borne. He that shall do an honest deed Shall win an honest deed's rewards; For these, no matter race or creed, Life unto every man affords. by Edgar Albert Guest |
| What I Call Living The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold; The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold; The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea, And upon this vital subject no two of us agree. But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along, That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song. I wouldn't call it living always to be seeking gold, To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old. I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame, And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim. I wouldn't for the splendor of the world set out to roam, And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home. Oh, the thing that I call living isn't gold or fame at all! It's good-fellowship and sunshine, and it's roses by the wall; It's evenings glad with music and a hearth fire that's ablaze, And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways. It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal; It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul. by Edgar Albert Guest |
| Prayer For The Home Peace, unto this house, I pray, Keep terror and despair away; Shield it from evil and let sin Never find lodging room within. May never in these walls be heard The hateful or accusing word. Grant that its warm and mellow light May be to all a beacon bright, A flaming symbol that shall stir The beating pulse of him or her Who finds this door and seems to say, "Here end the trials of the day." Hold us together, gentle Lord, Who sit about this humble board; May we be spared the cruel fate Of those whom hatreds separate; Here let love bind us fast, that we May know the joys of unity. Lord, this humble house we'd keep Sweet with play and calm with sleep. Help us so that we may give Beauty to the lives we live. Let Thy love and let Thy grace Shine upon our dwelling place. by Edgar Albert Guest |
| No Room For Hate We have room for the man with an honest dream, With his heart on fire and his eyes agleam; We have room for the man with a purpose true, Who comes to our shores to start life anew, But we haven't an inch of space for him Who comes to plot against life and limb. We have room for the man who will learn our ways, Who will stand by our Flag in its troubled days; We have room for the man who will till the soil, Who will give his hands to a fair day's toil, But we haven't an inch of space to spare For the breeder of hatred and black despair. We have room for the man who will neighbor here, Who will keep his hands and his conscience clear; We have room for the man who'll respect our laws And pledge himself to our country's cause, But we haven't an inch of land to give To the alien breed that will alien live. Against the vicious we bar the gate! This is no breeding ground for hate. This is the land of the brave and free And such we pray it shall always be. We have room for men who will love our flag, But none for the friends of the scarlet rag. by Edgar Albert Guest |
| 'Do not stand at my grave and weep' Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die. by Mary Elizabeth Frye |
| 'Courage' Courage is the price that Life exacts for granting peace. The soul that knows it not knows no release From little things: Knows not the livid loneliness of fear, Nor mountain heights where bitter joy can hear The sound of wings. How can life grant us boon of living, compensate For dull gray ugliness and pregnant hate Unless we dare The soul’s dominion? Each time we make a choice, we pay With courage to behold the resistless day, And count it fair. by Amelia Earhart |
| The Choice (The American Spirit Speaks) To the Judge of Right and Wrong With Whom fulfillment lies Our purpose and our power belong, Our faith and sacrifice. Let Freedom's land rejoice! Our ancient bonds are riven; Once more to us the eternal choice Of good or ill is given. Not at a little cost, Hardly by prayer or tears, Shall we recover the road we lost In the drugged and doubting years, But after the fires and the wrath, But after searching and pain, His Mercy opens us a path To live with ourselves again. In the Gates of Death rejoice! We see and hold the good— Bear witness, Earth, we have made our choice For Freedom's brotherhood. Then praise the Lord Most High Whose Strength hath saved us whole, Who bade us choose that the Flesh should die And not the living Soul! by Rudyard Kipling |
| The Question Brethren, how shall it fare with me When the war is laid aside, If it be proven that I am he For whom a world has died? If it be proven that all my good, And the greater good I will make, Were purchased me by a multitude Who suffered for my sake? That I was delivered by mere mankind Vowed to one sacrifice, And not, as I hold them, battle-blind, But dying with open eyes? That they did not ask me to draw the sword When they stood to endure their lot — That they only looked to me for a word, And I answered I knew them not? If it be found, when the battle clears, Their death has set me free, Then how shall I live with myself through the years Which they have bought for me? Brethren, how must it fare with me, Or how am I justified, If it be proven that I am he For whom mankind has died — If it be proven that I am he Who, being questioned, denied? by Rudyard Kipling |
| A Nativity The Babe was laid in the Manger Between the gentle kine — All safe from cold and danger — "But it was not so with mine, (With mine! With mine!) "Is it well with the child, is it well?" The waiting mother prayed. "For I know not how he fell, And I know not where he is laid." A Star stood forth in Heaven; The Watchers ran to see The Sign of the Promise given — "But there comes no sign to me. (To me! To me!) "My child died in the dark. Is it well with the child, is it well? There was none to tend him or mark, And I know not how he fell." The Cross was raised on high; The Mother grieved beside — "But the Mother saw Him die And took Him when He died. (He died! He died!) "Seemly and undefiled His burial-place was made — Is it well, is it well with the child? For I know not where he is laid." On the dawning of Easter Day Comes Mary Magdalene; But the Stone was rolled away, And the Body was not within — (Within! Within!) "Ah, who will answer my word? The broken mother prayed. "They have taken away my Lord, And I know not where He is laid." "The Star stands forth in Heaven. The watchers watch in vain For Sign of the Promise given Of peace on Earth again — (Again! Again!) "But I know for Whom he fell" — The steadfast mother smiled, "Is it well with the child — is it well? It is well — it is well with the child!" by Rudyard Kipling |
| The Covenant We thought we ranked above the chance of ill. Others might fall, not we, for we were wise— Merchants in freedom. So, of our free-will We let our servants drug our strength with lies. The pleasure and the poison had its way On us as on the meanest, till we learned That he who lies will steal, who steals will slay. Neither God's judgment nor man's heart was turned. Yet there remains His Mercy—to be sought Through wrath and peril till we cleanse the wrong By that last right which our forefathers claimed When their Law failed them and its stewards were bought. This is our cause. God help us, and make strong Our will to meet Him later, unashamed! by Rudyard Kipling |
| The Burial When that great Kings return to clay, Or Emperors in their pride, Grief of a day shall fill a day, Because its creature died. But we — we reckon not with those Whom the mere Fates ordain, This Power that wrought on us and goes Back to the Power again. Dreamer devout, by vision led Beyond our guess or reach, The travail of his spirit bred Cities in place of speech. So huge the all-mastering thought that drove — So brief the term allowed — Nations, not words, he linked to prove His faith before the crowd. It is his will that he look forth Across the world he won — The granite of the ancient North — Great spaces washed with sun. There shall he patient take his seat (As when the Death he dared), And there await a people's feet In the paths that he prepared. There, till the vision he foresaw Splendid and whole arise, And unimagined Empires draw To council 'neath his skies, The immense and brooding Spirit still Shall quicken and control. Living he was the land, and dead, His soul shall be her soul! by Rudyard Kipling |
| A Minor Bird I have wished a bird would fly away, And not sing by my house all day; Have clapped my hands at him from the door When it seemed as if I could bear no more. The fault must partly have been in me. The bird was not to blame for his key. And of course there must be something wrong In wanting to silence any song. by Robert Frost |
| Acceptance When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud And goes down burning into the gulf below, No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud At what has happened. Birds, at least must know It is the change to darkness in the sky. Murmuring something quiet in her breast, One bird begins to close a faded eye; Or overtaken too far from his nest, Hurrying low above the grove, some waif Swoops just in time to his remembered tree. At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe! Now let the night be dark for all of me. Let the night bee too dark for me to see Into the future. Let what will be, be.' by Robert Frost |
| The Oft-Repeated Dream She had no saying dark enough For the dark pine that kept Forever trying the window latch Of the room where they slept. The tireless but ineffectual hands That with every futile pass Made the great tree seem as a little bird Before the mystery of glass! It never had been inside the room, And only one of the two Was afraid in an oft-repeated dream Of what the tree might do. by Robert Frost |
| Storm Fear When the wind works against us in the dark, And pelts with snow The lowest chamber window on the east, And whispers with a sort of stifled bark, The beast, 'Come out! Come out!'— It costs no inward struggle not to go, Ah, no! I count our strength, Two and a child, Those of us not asleep subdued to mark How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,— How drifts are piled, Dooryard and road ungraded, Till even the comforting barn grows far away And my heart owns a doubt Whether 'tis in us to arise with day And save ourselves unaided. by Robert Frost |
| Enough It is enough for me by day To walk the same bright earth with him; Enough that over us by night The same great roof of stars is dim. I have no care to bind the wind Or set a fetter on the sea— It is enough to feel his love Blow by like music over me. by Sara Teasdale |
| May Night The spring is fresh and fearless And every leaf is new, The world is brimmed with moonlight, The lilac brimmed with dew. Here in the moving shadows I catch my breath and sing— My heart is fresh and fearless And over-brimmed with spring by Sara Teasdale |
| I Thought Of You I thought of you and how you love this beauty, And walking up the long beach all alone I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder As you and I once heard their monotone. Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me The cold and sparkling silver of the sea — We two will pass through death and ages lengthen Before you hear that sound again with me by Sara Teasdale |
| Testament I said, "I will take my life And throw it away; I who was fire and song Will turn to clay." "I will lie no more in the night With shaken breath, I will toss my heart in the air To be caught by Death." But out of the night I heard, Like the inland sound of the sea, The hushed and terrible sob Of all humanity. Then I said, "Oh who am I To scorn God to his face? I will bow my head and stay And suffer with my race." by Sara Teasdale |
| Early Spring Once more the Heavenly Power Makes all things new, And domes the red-plowed hills With loving blue; The blackbirds have their wills, The throstles too. Opens a door in Heaven; From skies of glass A Jacob's ladder falls On greening grass, And o'er the mountain-walls Young angels pass. Before them fleets the shower, And burst the buds, And shine the level lands, And flash the floods; The stars are from their hands Flung through the woods, The woods with living airs How softly fanned, Light airs from where the deep, All down the sand, Is breathing in his sleep, Heard by the land. O, follow, leaping blood, The season's lure! O heart, look down and up, Serene, secure, Warm as the crocus cup, Like snow-drops, pure! Past, Future glimpse and fade Through some slight spell, A gleam from yonder vale, by Alfred Lord Tennyson |
| I Continue To Dream I take my dreams and make of them a bronze vase and a round fountain with a beautiful statue in its center. And a song with a broken heart and I ask you: Do you understand my dreams? Sometimes you say you do, And sometimes you say you don't. Either way it doesn't matter. I continue to dream. by Langston Hughes |
| For Selma In places like Selma, Alabama, Kids say, In places like Chicago and New York... In places like Chicago and New York Kids say, In places like London and Paris... In places like London and Paris Kids say, In places like Chicago and New York... by Langston Hughes |
| The Negro Mother Children, I come back today To tell you a story of the long dark way That I had to climb, that I had to know In order that the race might live and grow. Look at my face — dark as the night — Yet shining like the sun with love's true light I am the child they stole from the sand three hundred years ago in Africa's land. I am the dark girl who crossed the wide sea Carrying in my body the seed of the free. I am the woman who worked in the field Bringing the cotton and the corn to yield. I am the one who labored as a slave, Beaten and mistreated for the work I gave — Children sold away from me, husband sold, too. No safety , no love, no respect was I due. Three hundred years in the deepest South: But God put a song and a prayer in my mouth . God put a dream like steel in my soul. Now, through my children, I'm reaching the goal. Now, through my children, young and free, I realize the blessings deed to me. I couldn't read then. I couldn't write. I had nothing, back there in the night. Sometimes, the valley was filled with tears, But I kept trudging on through the lonely years. Sometimes, the road was hot with the sun, But I had to keep on till my work was done: I had to keep on! No stopping for me — I was the seed of the coming Free. I nourished the dream that nothing could smother Deep in my breast — the Negro mother. I had only hope then, but now through you, Dark ones of today, my dreams must come true: All you dark children in the world out there, Remember my sweat, my pain, my despair. Remember my years, heavy with sorrow — And make of those years a torch for tomorrow. Make of my pass a road to the light Out of the darkness, the ignorance, the night. Lift high my banner out of the dust. Stand like free men supporting my trust. Believe in the right, let none push you back. Remember the whip and the slaver's track. Remember how the strong in struggle and strife Still bar you the way, and deny you life — But march ever forward, breaking down bars. Look ever upward at the sun and the stars. Oh, my dark children, may my dreams and my prayers Impel you forever up the great stairs — For I will be with you till no white brother Dares keep down the children of the Negro Mother. by Langston Hughes |
| I, Too I, too, sing America. I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong. Tomorrow, I'll be at the table When company comes. Nobody'll dare Say to me, "Eat in the kitchen," Then. Besides, They'll see how beautiful I am And be ashamed— I, too, am America. by Langston Hughes |
| Wealth From Christ to Ghandi Appears this truth- St. Francis of Assisi Proves it, too: Goodness becomes grandeur Surpassing might of kings. Halos of kindness Brighter shine Than crowns of gold, And brighter Than rich diamonds Sparkles The simple dew Of love. by Langston Hughes |
| Oppression Now dreams Are not available To the dreamers, Nor songs To the singers. In some lands Dark night And cold steel Prevail But the dream Will come back, And the song Break Its jail. by Langston Hughes |
| Walkers With The Dawn Being walkers with the dawn and morning, Walkers with the sun and morning, We are not afraid of night, Nor days of gloom, Nor darkness— Being walkers with the sun and morning. by Langston Hughes |
| Still Here been scared and battered. My hopes the wind done scattered. Snow has friz me, Sun has baked me, Looks like between 'em they done Tried to make me Stop laughin', stop lovin', stop livin'— But I don't care! I'm still here! by Langston Hughes |
| Only You Dusty my soul tonight. Earth has been dear. Bewildered, I come to You, Father God, hear. Idols that charm me, dreams that allure, pains that alarm me, suspense to endure, memories that linger, thoughts that ensnare, a heart that is aching, all crumpled by care, unsatisfied, restless, scarce able to pray– everything, everything take it away. Only You, none but You, Jesus alone: ashes the rest to me, songs with a groan, take them each one away– mind not my tears– lift me above this earth’s joys and its fears, give me Yourself alone– nothing beside– so will I be with You, content, satisfied! by Ruth Bell Graham |
| Time to Adore And when I die I hope my soul ascends slowly, so that I may watch the earth receding out of sight, its vastness growing smaller as I rise, savoring its recession with delight. Anticipating joy is itself a joy. And joy unspeakable and full of glory needs more than “in the twinkling of an eye,” more than “in a moment.” Lord, who am I to disagree? It’s only we have much to leave behind; so much … Before. These moments of transition will, for me, be time to adore. by Ruth Bell Graham |
| The Man I Prayed For Dear God, I prayed, all unafraid (as we’re inclined to do), I do not need a handsome man but let him be like You; I do not need one big and strong nor yet so very tall, nor need he be some genius, or wealthy, Lord, at all; but let his head be high, dear God, and let his eye be clear, his shoulders straight, whate’er his state, whate’er his earthly sphere; and let his face have character, a ruggedness of soul, and let his whole life show, dear God, a singleness of goal; then when he comes (as he will come) with quiet eyes aglow, I’ll understand that he’s the man I prayed for long ago. by Ruth Bell Graham |
| Dreams What dreams we have and how they fly Like rosy clouds across the sky; Of wealth, of fame, of sure success, Of love that comes to cheer and bless; And how they wither, how they fade, The waning wealth, the jilting jade — The fame that for a moment gleams, Then flies forever, —dreams, ah —dreams! O burning doubt and long regret O tears with which our eyes are wet, Heart-throbs, heart-aches, the glut of pain, The somber cloud, the bitter rain, You were not of those dreams — ah! well, Your full fruition who can tell? Wealth, fame, and love, ah! love that beams Upon our souls, all dreams — ah! dreams. by Paul Laurence Dunbar |
| Encouraged BECAUSE you love me I have much achieved, Had you despised me then I must have failed, But since I knew you trusted and believed, I could not disappoint you and so prevailed. by Paul Laurence Dunbar |
| A Golden Day I FOUND you and I lost you, All on a gleaming day. The day was filled with sunshine, And the land was full of May. A golden bird was singing Its melody divine, I found you and I loved you, And all the world was mine. I found you and I lost you, All on a golden day, But when I dream of you, dear, It is always brimming May. by Paul Laurence Dunbar |
| Preparation THE little bird sits in the nest and sings A shy, soft song to the morning light; And it flutters a little and prunes its wings. The song is halting and poor and brief, And the fluttering wings scarce stir a leaf; But the note is a prelude to sweeter things, And the busy bill and the flutter slight Are proving the wings for a bolder flight! by Paul Laurence Dunbar |
| What's The Use WHAT'S the use o' folks a-frownin' When the way's a little rough? Frowns lay out the road fur smilin' You'll be wrinkled soon enough. What's the use? What's the use o' folks a-sighin'? It's an awful waste o' breath, An' a body can't stand wastin' What he needs so bad in death. What's the use? What's the use o' even weepin'? Might as well go long an' smile. Life, our longest, strongest arrow, Only lasts a little while. What's the use? by Paul Laurence Dunbar |
| Hymn WHEN storms arise And dark'ning skies About me threat'ning lower, To thee, O Lord, I raise mine eyes, To thee my tortured spirit flies For solace in that hour. Thy mighty arm Will let no harm Come near me nor befall me; Thy voice shall quiet my alarm, When life's great battle waxeth warm — No foeman shall appall me. Upon thy breast Secure I rest, From sorrow and vexation; No more by sinful cares oppressed, But in thy presence ever blest, O God of my salvation. by Paul Laurence Dunbar |
| Conscience And Remorse "GOOD-BYE," I said to my conscience — "Good-bye for aye and aye," And I put her hands off harshly, And turned my face away; And conscience smitten sorely Returned not from that day. But a time came when my spirit Grew weary of its pace; And I cried: "Come back, my conscience; I long to see thy face." But conscience cried: "I cannot; Remorse sits in my place." by Paul Laurence Dunbar |
| A Prayer O LORD, the hard-won miles Have worn my stumbling feet: Oh, soothe me with thy smiles, And make my life complete. The thorns were thick and keen Where'er I trembling trod; The way was long between My wounded feet and God. Where healing waters flow Do thou my footsteps lead. My heart is aching so; Thy gracious balm I need by Paul Laurence Dunbar |
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