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Untitled
by Henry David Thoreau
Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed,
And in
such desperate enterprises?
If a man does not keep pace with his companions
Perhaps it is because he hears a different
drummer.
Let him step to the music which he hears,
However measured or far away.
"Here's To Ther Kids Who Are Different"
by Digby Wilte
Here’s to the kids who are different,
The kids
who don’t always get As,
The kids with ears twice the size of their peers,
Or noses that go on for days.
Here’s
to the kids who are just out of step,
The kids they all tease,
Who have cuts on their knees,
And whose sneakers are
constantly wet.
Here’s to the kids who are different,
The kids with a mischievous streak,
For when they
are grown as history has shown,
It’s their difference that makes them unique.
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"The Village Blacksmith"
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The
smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His
hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er
he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You
can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing
the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They
love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And watch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a
threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He
hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like
her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And
with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward
through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something
done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus
at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and
thought!
A Psalm of Life
What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For
the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust
thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But
to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled
drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be
not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its
dead!
Act--act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And,
departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn
main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still
achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Untitled
by Frederick S. Perfs
I do my thing, and you do your thing.
I am not in this world
to live up to your expectations,
And you are not in this world to live up to mine.
You are you and I am I,
And if
by chance we find each other,
It’s beautiful.
"In Flanders
Fields"
by
John McCrane
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between
the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid
the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved,
and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The
torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders
fields.
"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 imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap
for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;
If
you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your
beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your
turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold
on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch,
If neither
foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving
minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run --
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And -- which
is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!
The Arrow And The Song
Poem lyrics of The Arrow And The Song by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not
where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It
fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long,
long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in
the heart of a friend.
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