The House by the Side of the Road

by Sam Walter Foss

THERE are hermit souls that live withdrawn

In the place of their self-content;

There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,

In a fellowless firmament;

There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths

Where highways never ran-

But let me live by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road

Where the race of men go by-

The men who are good and the men who are bad,

As good and as bad as I.

I would not sit in the scorner's seat

Nor hurl the cynic's ban-

Let me live in a house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road

By the side of the highway of life,

The men who press with the ardor of hope,

The men who are faint with the strife,

But I turn not away from their smiles and tears,

Both parts of an infinite plan-

Let me live in a house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead,

And mountains of wearisome height;

That the road passes on through the long afternoon

And stretches away to the night.

And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice

And weep with the strangers that moan,

Nor live in my house by the side of the road

Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road,

Where the race of men go by-

They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,

Wise, foolish - so am I.

Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,

Or hurl the cynic's ban?

Let me live in my house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

The Phone Stopped Ringing

The Phone Stopped Ringing

By Wayne Hinton

1.15.1999

My mother died – and friends called;

They all sent their love and expression of caring.

Each day I read the cards that cam

Filled with verses of peace and thoughts of love –

Then the phone stopped ringing.

My grandmother died – and, once again,

My friends came around with thought of sharing.

With warm greeting and sincere love,

Everyone wanted to help and to share the pain –

Then the phone stopped ringing.

My dad was near death and friends rallied again.

They knew our suffering was wearing.

There is only so much a person’s soul can take,

And they wanted to help lift the weight –

Then the phone stopped ringing.

I lost my job – and untold people called,

Many were bent on swearing.

They couldn’t believe the events were happening,

And offered ways to overcome them –

Then the phone stopped ringing.

God has allowed these things to happen – and given us strength,

As we faced each event we were bearing.

He has given us knowledge that our friends are still there,

Each meaning well in their own special way –

Even when the phone stopped ringing.

But, let’s not stop there – others need our help,

As they face each day with hope and daring.

Every one has their trials to face, as through this life they travel.

Let’s band together and show we care –

And not let the phone stop ringing.

The memories linger forever – there is no end

Of the pain in our hearts that is tearing

Our thoughts and feelings from the work we all have.

God has given us a bond we need to always share –

Let’s never let the phone stop ringing.

Copyright 1.15.1999

Jenny Kiss'd Me

by James Henry "Leigh" Hunt

Jenny kiss’d me when we met,

    Jumping from the chair she sat in;

Time, you thief, who love to get

    Sweets into your list, put that in!

Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,

    Say that health and wealth have miss’d me,

Say I’m growing old, but add,

    Jenny kiss’d me.

I Remember, I Remember

by Thomas Hood

I remember, I remember 
The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 
Came peeping in at morn; 
He never came a wink too soon 
Nor brought too long a day; 
But now, I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember 
The roses red and white, 
The violets and the lily cups-- 
Those flowers made of light! 
The lilacs where the robin built, 
And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday,-- 
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember 
Where I was used to swing, 
And thought the air must rush as fresh 
To swallows on the wing; 
My spirit flew in feathers then 
That is so heavy now, 
The summer pools could hardly cool 
The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember 
The fir-trees dark and high; 
I used to think their slender tops 
Were close against the sky: 
It was a childish ignorance, 
But now 'tis little joy 
To know I'm farther off from Heaven 
Than when I was a boy. 

A Lost Chord

by Adelaide Anne Proctor

Seated one day at the Organ,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.

I do not know what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming then ;
But I struck one chord of music,
Like the sound of a great Amen.

It flooded the crimson twilight,
Like the close of an Angel's Psalm,
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife ;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexéd meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence
As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,
Which came from the soul of the Organ,
And entered into mine.

It may be that Death's bright angel
Will speak in that chord again,
It may be that only in Heaven
I shall hear that grand Amen.

I Shall Not Pass Again This Way

Anonymous

The bread that bringeth strength I want to give,
The water pure that bids the thirsty live:
I want to help the fainting day by day;
I’m sure I shall not pass again this way.

I want to give the oil of joy for tears,
The faith to conquer crowding doubts and fears.
Beauty for ashes may I give always:
I’m sure I shall not pass again this way.

I want to give some measure running o’er,
And into angry hearts I want to pour
The answer soft that turneth wrath away;
I’m sure I shall not pass again this way.

I want to give to others hope and faith,
I want to do all that the Master saith;
I want to live aright from day to day;
I’m sure I shall not pass again this way.

My Mother

(Some attribute this to Jane Taylor who also wrote "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" while others attribute it to Ann Taylor, her sister. They worked together and published many books of rhymes and poems together making it difficult to know who wrote which poems.)

Who fed me from her gentle breast,
And hush’d me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
My Mother.

When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet hushaby,
And rock’d me that I should not cry?
My Mother.

Who sat and watched my infant head,
When sleeping in my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My Mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My Mother.

Who dress’d my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play.
And minded all I had to say?
My Mother.

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
And love God’s holy book and day.
And walk in Wisdom’s pleasant way?
My Mother.

And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was so very kind to me?
My Mother

Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear;
And if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,
My Mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
My Mother.

When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away.
My Mother.

And when I see thee hang thy head,
‘Twill be my turn to watch thy bed.
And tears of sweet affection shed,
My Mother.

For God, who lives above the skies,
Would look with vengeance in His eyes,
If I should ever dare despise
My Mother.

[Note from Mama Lisa: Taylor later softened the last verse, changing it to the following.]

For could our Father in the skies
Look down with pleased or loving eyes,
If ever I could dare despise
My Mother.

Crossing the Bar

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

Sunset and evening star,

      And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

      When I put out to sea,

   But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

      Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

      Turns again home.

   Twilight and evening bell,

      And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

      When I embark;

   For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

      The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

      When I have crost the bar.

Jabberwocky

BY LEWIS CARROLL

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

      The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;

      Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree

      And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

      And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

      He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

      Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

      He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

Jabberwocky is a nonsense poem written by Lewis Carroll in his 1871 novel Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There, a sequel to Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. 

In an early scene in which she first encounters the chess piece characters White King and White Queen, Alice finds a book written in a seemingly unintelligible language. Realising that she is travelling through an inverted world, she recognises that the verse on the pages are written in mirror-writing. She holds a mirror to one of the poems, and reads the reflected verse of "Jabberwocky". She finds the nonsense verse as puzzling as the odd land she has passed into, later revealed as a dreamscape.

Jabberwocky is considered one of the greatest nonsense poems written in English. Its playful, whimsical language has given English nonsense words and neologismssuch as "galumphing" and "chortle".

In Flanders Fields

(written during the First World War by Canadian physician Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae)

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.

The Swing

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

How do you like to go up in a swing,

   Up in the air so blue?

Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing

   Ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall,

   Till I can see so wide,

Rivers and trees and cattle and all

   Over the countryside—

Till I look down on the garden green,

   Down on the roof so brown—

Up in the air I go flying again,

   Up in the air and down!

(This one brings back a lot of great memories, whether it be a swing set, a tire swing on a tree or the swings at my grandmothers' houses. Now the joy comes from watching our grandchildren enjoy the swings.)

Daffodils

by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

(In Texas, this could also be about bluebonnets)

Nancy

How can you look so pretty there,
On each and every day?
Do you not have a conscience, love?
How can you be so gay?

You, sitting there in loveliness,
Each day in that same chair
You've sat in for so long it seems,
Give me a feeling rare!

You're being far too selfish, dear.
You know you should not be.
You ought to spread your beauty 'round!
Come! Share a bit with me!

by Wayne Hinton, around 1961-62

Many Letters

by Wayne Hinton, in late 1962

I've written many letters, love,
But none you'll ever see.
I've written many letters, my dear,
And mailed each back to me.

For when I sit her all alone,
No matter where or when,
Reminders of the days we shared
Seep slowly, surely in.

I fear our love is gone for good.
Who is the one to blame?
Did I do something wrong, my dear? (name withheld)
Keep happiness away?
Perhaps I thought more of myself
And did you harm that way.

Do you remember how we'd sit
And dream the nights away?
My thoughts were full those nights of you,
The wife I'd have some day.

Your paintings were so beautiful
As on the walls they hung.
They could have graced our home, I thought,
As could those songs you'd sung.
Why did those dreams come to an end?
Why did they fail so soon?
I ask these questions often, love,
While gazing at the moon.

My heart grows faint; my legs get weak
Each time I think of thee.
I lack the pluck to write to you.
I'm writing this to me.

The Kitten

by Wayne Hinton
(Not one of my better efforts, but I think it had a message to me at the time.)

Did you ever watch a kitten,
One that's not too old,
As it finds a new adventure
And studies each detail?
The sight may not intrigue you,
But to me it means a lot.
For, you see, upon occasion,
It was not too long ago
I had a pert, young kitten
And tried to raise it well.

You may not like sad stories.
If not, I beg you leave
For this may be the saddest
That I shall ever write.
It began one summer evening.
I found her in the road.
And took her, fed her, loved her
Trained her the best I knew.

I'm sure that kitten loved me, too.
She told me so each day
As she cuddled beside me
And purred so soft and low.
I wanted her to grow up
Into a strong old cat
So full of strength and wisdom
And also warmth and love
So no one could deny her
The praise she so deserved.

And now on with my story;
The one I started to tell
About how I watched this kitten
One day when she was at play
And began to climb a sofa.
She struggled to reach the top.
She took some pride upon her
As high atop she stood.
You must believe what follows
I thought was for her good.

I'm sure you know what pride is
And the dangers of too much.
I also know pride's powers
But the kitten could not know.
She had to be taught a lesson;
She had to learn it well.
It could not be forgotten
She had won her fight.
I knew defeat must come again,
So I knocked her from her perch.

Help would have been a hindrance
To the lesson I thought she'd learn.
So sure I was she'd fight once more
To regain her once known heights.
But this time she did not struggle.
No, she was not dead,
Though it might have been a blessing
Since she never fought again.
She chose a life that's lower
And I must bear the blame.

Don't think that I'd desert her.
I never will do that
Although it does seem hopeless
That I can right my wrong.
I have tried once to do it.
I laid her on the peak
And thought she would be pleased there.
She quickly proved me wrong.
Oh, how can I tell my kitten
I'm sorry!

Vanity

Why do you fight, vain world?
You can never last.
God has made us different, imperfect.
Only He can last.

Develop your bombs, strive for peace
Which never will be seen.
But, until we become one in God,
We shall be forever lean.

Lay down your arms and pick up His;
Aid your fellow man;
Damn your wars - forget them.
Through Him you can win.

by Wayne Hinton,
(I only got a "B" on this one; I think it was "A" work, myself.)

Number One

(I find it hard to believe that I wrote this one, but it is possible. I simply don't know. It is in my handwriting without credit to anyone.)

Whenever a fellow
With marriage ties binding him
Observes that his spouse
Is forever reminding him
About his mistakes
From the least to the worst of them.
He's likely to figure
That she was the worst of them.

Poem for The Living by Theodora Kroeber

When I am dead,
Cry for me a little.
Think of me sometimes,
But not too much.
It is not good for you
Or your wife or your husband
Or your children
To allow your thoughts to dwell
Too long on the dead.
Think of me now and again
As I was in life
At some moment which it is a pleasure to recall
But not too long.
Leave me in peace
As I shall leave you, too, in peace.
While you live,
Let your thoughts be with the living.

Once Upon a Time

(I don't know if this is original or not. I found it in my archives and it is in my handwriting but that doesn't really prove I wrote it.)

Once upon a time,
A boy went to see a girl.
That's possible.

They had dinner together.
That's possible.

After dinner they went for a ride.
That's possible.

The car stalled on a lonely road.
That's probable.

The boy took the girl home as safe as she was when they left.
That's possible.
Once upon a time!

Don't Quit

by John Greenleaf Whittier

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,

When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit-
Rest if you must, but don't you quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns,

As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a fellow turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out.
Don't give up though the pace seems slow -
You may succeed with another blow.
Often the goal is nearer than

It seems to a faint and faltering man;
Often the struggler has given up
Whe he might have captured the victor's cup;
And he learned too late when the night came down,
How close he was to the golden crown.
Success is failure turned inside out -

The silver tint in the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are,
It might be near when it seems afar;
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit -
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.

For all the sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

Little Boy Blue

by Eugene Field (1850-1895)

The little toy dog is covered with dust,
   But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
   And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
   And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
   Kissed them and put them there.
"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
   "And don't you make any noise!"
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
   He dreamt of the pretty toys;
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
   Awakened our Little Boy Blue---
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
   But the little toy friends are true!
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
   Each in the same old place---
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
   The smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
   In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
   Since he kissed them and put them there.

Mourning

Why do you cry to no avail
When someone you love has gone?
Why does it take so long for you
To weep - then travel on?

In time, we all must die, it's true.
But must it be like this?
When I die, don't mourn for me,
Just kiss me a gentle kiss.

I'll remember all of you when I am gone -
Each love and hate we shared.
Remember me, also, is all I ask -
Even if you never really cared.

I'll be better off than you -
That is, after I'm dead.
Remembrances of my tragic death
Will never fill my head.

But you will have the memories,
Lodged within your soul,
Of how my life was good, or bad,
And stopped short of its goal.

So please don't cry to no avail
When I or a love has gone.
But trust us to the hands of God.
Bless us -- then move on.

Written by Wayne Hinton
(I don't remember the occasion - it might well have been early 1963 when a very close friend died in a car accident. I just can't be sure.)