BarnsleyandFamily

I love poetry, I have some more poems on a separate page.

 

"The Lord God planted a garden in the first white days of the world,
and he set there an angel warden in a garment of light enfurled.
The kiss of the sun for pardon, the song of the bird for mirth,
one is nearer God's heart in a garden than anywhere else on earth."
Poem by Dorothy Frances Blomfield Gurney (1858-1932)

 

By Madeline Bridges

There are loyal hearts, there are spirits brave,
There are souls that are pure and true,
Then give the world the best you have,
And the best will come back to you.


Give love, and love to your life will flow,
A strength in your utmost need,
Have faith, and a score of hearts will show
Their faith in your word and deed.


Give truth, and your gift will be paid in kind;
And honor will honor meet;
And a smile that is sweet will surely find
A smile that is just as sweet.


Give pity and sorrow to those who mourn,
You will gather in flowers again
The scattered seeds from your thoughts outborne,
Though the sowing seemed but vain.


For life is the mirror of king and slave,
'Tis just what we are and do;
Then give to the world the best you have,
And the best will come back to you.
_________________

 

 

Each in His Own Tongue

A FIRE-MIST and a planet,

A crystal and a cell,

A jelly-fish and a saurian,

And caves where the cave-men dwell;

Then a sense of law and beauty

And a face turned from the clod --

Some call it Evolution,

And others call it God.

A haze on the far horizon,

The infinite, tender sky,

The ripe rich tint of the cornfileds,

And the wild geese sailing high --

And all over upland and lowland

The charm of the golden-rod --

Some of us call it Autumn

And others call it God.

Like tides on a crescent sea-beach,

When the moon is new and thin,

Into our hearts high yearnings

Come welling and surging in --

Come from the mystic ocean,

Whose rim no foot has trod, --

Some of us call it Longing,

And others call it God.

A picket frozen on duty,

A mother starved for her brood,

Socrates drinking the hemlock,

And Jesus on the rood;

And millions who, humble and nameless,

The straight, hard pathway plod, --

Some call it Consecration,

And others call it God.

William Herbert Carruth

Ghosts of Dreams

WE are all of us dreamers of dreams,

On visions our childhood is fed;

And the heart of a child is unhaunted, it seems,

By ghosts of dreams that are dead.

From childhood to youth's but a span,

And the years of our life are soon sped;

But the youth is no longer a youth, but a man,

When the first of his dreams is dead.

'Tis a cup of wormwood and gall,

When the doom of a great man is said;

And the best of a man is under a pall

When the best of his dreams is dead.

He may live on by compact and plan

When the fine bloom of living is shed,

But God pity the little that's left of a man

When most of his dreams are dead.

Let him show a brave face if he can;

Let him woo fame and fortune instead;

Yet there's not much to do, but to bury a man

When the last of his dreams is dead.