As We Prayed

Poem of the Day

by Edgar Albert Guest

Often as we watched her there
From our lips there fell this prayer,
'God, give us the pain to bear!
Let us suffer in her place,
Take the anguish from her face,
Soothe her with Thy holy grace.'

Then the angels came, and they
Took her lovely soul away
From the torture house of clay.
As we'd prayed, they brought release,
Smoothed her brow with gentle peace,
But our pain shall never cease.

Ours is now the hurt to bear,
Ours the anguish and despair,
Ours the agony to share!
When our hearts with grief were stirred,
Thus we prayed and thus were heard,
Shall we fail to keep our word? 

The Temple - What Makes It Of Worth?

Poem of the Day

The Temple - What Makes It Of Worth?
by Edgar Albert Guest

You may delve down to rock for your foundation piers,
You may go with your steel to the sky
You may purchase the best of the thought of the years,
And the finest of workmanship buy.
You may line with the rarest of marble each hall,
And with gold you may tint it; but then
It is only a building if it, after all,
Isn't filled with the spirit of men.

You may put up a structure of brick and of stone,
Such as never was put up before;
Place there the costliest woods that are grown,
And carve every pillar and door.
You may fill it with splendors of quarry and mine,
With the glories of brush and of pen —
But it's only a building, though ever so fine,
If it hasn't the spirit of men.

You may build such structure that lightning can't harm,
Or one that an earthquake can't raze;
You may build it of granite, and boast that its charm
Shall last to the end of all days.
But you might as well never have builded at all,
Never cleared off the bog and the fen,
If, after it's finished, its sheltering wall
Doesn't stand for the spirit of men.

For it isn't the marble, nor is it the stone
Nor is it the columns of steel,
By which is the worth of an edifice known;
But it's something that's living and real. 

Silent

Poem of the Day

Silent
by Edgar Albert Guest

I did not argue with the man,
It seemed a waste of words.
He gave to chance the wondrous plan
That gave sweet song to birds.

He gave to force the wisdom wise
That shaped the honeybee,
And made the useful butterflies
So beautiful to see.

And as we walked 'neath splendid trees
Which cast a friendly shade,
He said: 'Such miracles as these
By accident were made.'

Too well I know what accident
And chance and force disclose
To think blind fury could invent
The beauty of a rose.

I let him talk and answered not.
I merely thought it odd
That he could view a garden plot
And not believe in God. 

This Is A Daily Reminder,

This Is A Daily Reminder

© Nicolette

This is a daily reminder
To relax
To not get angry over small things
To stay calm 

This is a daily reminder
To be yourself
To not care what people think
To know you can be anything

This is a daily reminder
To love yourself
To not hurt yourself
To not work yourself up 

This is a daily reminder
That you are beautiful
That you are amazing
That you will succeed

This is a daily reminder
To always have hope
To have faith
To know everything will be okay

This is a daily reminder
That you have made it so far already
That you haven't given up 
That whatever you're doing is right
And that you are going to be amazing

Don't give up
Keep holding on and believing.

Wynken, Blynken and Nod

Poem for the Day

Wynken, Blynken and Nod
by Eugene Field

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,--
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we,"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew;
The little stars were the herring-fish
That lived in the beautiful sea.
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,--
Never afraid are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam,--
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home:
'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:--
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod. 

What Can I Do?

WHAT CAN I DO?

by Wayne Hinton

April 26, 2015

Looking back over my seventy-one years, it is clear

That many things have remained the same.

What I liked and disliked in my younger days

I still feel is not much more than a head game.

Running fast in track meets was rewarding.

I enjoyed baseball and life in the country.

A starry, starry night is relaxing

And who doesn’t love a day that is sunny.

After my love of God and His ways,

My family is most important.

Of all the things I have experienced

Those have been the most constant.

Aging and illnesses have taken a lot away.

And it is so tempting to dwell on those things

That I can no longer do like when I was young

Yet I can still wait to see what tomorrow brings.

The business world taught me a lot

That no class room could ever do.

I try to learn from everything I have done

Selling real estate taught me, too.

I can no longer be effective in any job

No matter how hard I might try.

I know some my age that have recoiled from life

And sit around waiting to die.

Not me. Oh, no. I’ve never been that way.

To give up or to quit

Although to be totally honest,

It’s not always easy, I admit.

A dear friend and I have talked about

The physical trials we have been through.

Why we are still alive on earth can only mean

There is something else God wants us to do.

As the days go by and opportunities arise

It is important, it seems to me,

To take advantage of each and every one.

Even when the impact is hard to see.

I believe that God has a purpose and plan

For each and every person on earth.

And how we face each days challenges

He judges us for what we are worth.

So, I will try to relax and enjoy each day

Whether rainy or sunny, it doesn’t matter.

I will ask for Gods’ direction for me

And keep it in view; not let it scatter.

I’ve heard it said that the best way to learn

Is to teach others what you know.

So I plan to pass along what I have learned

To anyone wanting to grow.

If that is all I can do with my life

For whatever time I have on earth

To teach and to learn is important to God

And how we should live since our birth.

With Two Spoons for Two Spoons

Poem for the Day

With Two Spoons for Two Spoons
by Eugene Field

How trifling shall these gifts appear
Among the splendid many
That loving friends now send to cheer
Harvey and Ellen Jenney.

And yet these baubles symbolize
A certain fond relation
That well beseems, as I surmise,
This festive celebration.

Sweet friends of mine, be spoons once more,
And with your tender cooing
Renew the keen delights of yore--
The rapturous bliss of wooing.

What though that silver in your hair
Tells of the years aflying?
'T is yours to mock at Time and Care
With love that is undying.

In memory of this Day, dear friends,
Accept the modest token
From one who with the bauble sends
A love that can't be spoken. 

With Trumpet and Drum

Poem for the Day

With Trumpet and Drum
by Eugene Field

With big tin trumpet and little red drum,
Marching like soldiers, the children come!
It 's this way and that way they circle and file---
My! but that music of theirs is fine!
This way and that way, and after a while
They march straight into this heart of mine!
A sturdy old heart, but it has to succumb
To the blare of that trumpet and beat of that drum! 
Come on, little people, from cot and from hall---
This heart it hath welcome and room for you all!
It will sing you its songs and warm you with love,
As your dear little arms with my arms intertwine;
It will rock you away to the dreamland above---
Oh, a jolly old heart is this old heart of mine,
And jollier still is it bound to become
When you blow that big trumpet and beat that red drum! 
So come; though I see not his dear little face
And hear not his voice in this jubilant place,
I know he were happy to bid me enshrine
His memory deep in my heart with your play---
Ah me! but a love that is sweeter than mine
Holdeth my boy in its keeping to-day!
And my heart it is lonely---so, little folk, come,
March in and make merry with trumpet and drum! 

When I Was a Boy

Poem of the Day

When I Was a Boy
by Eugene Field

Up in the attic where I slept
When I was a boy, a little boy,
In through the lattice the moonlight crept,
Bringing a tide of dreams that swept
Over the low, red trundle-bed,
Bathing the tangled curly head,
While moonbeams played at hide-and-seek
With the dimples on the sun-browned cheek -
When I was a boy, a little boy!

And, oh! the dreams - the dreams I dreamed!
When I was a boy, a little boy!
For the grace that through the lattice streamed
Over my folded eyelids seemed
To have the gift of prophecy,
And to bring me glimpses of times to be
When manhood's clarion seemed to call -
Ah! that was the sweetest dream of all,
When I was a boy, a little boy!

I'd like to sleep where I used to sleep
When I was a boy, a little boy!
For in at the lattice the moon would peep,
Bringing her tide of dreams to sweep
The crosses and griefs of the years away
From the heart that is weary and faint to-day;
And those dreams should give me back again
A peace I have never known since then -
When I was a boy, a little boy! 

To a Jar of Wine

Poem of the Day

To a Jar of Wine
by Eugene Field

O gracious jar,--my friend, my twin,
Born at the time when I was born,--
Whether tomfoolery you inspire
Or animate with love's desire,
Or flame the soul with bitter scorn,
Or lull to sleep, O jar of mine!
Come from your place this festal day;
Corvinus hither wends his way,
And there's demand for wine!

Corvinus is the sort of man
Who dotes on tedious argument.
An advocate, his ponderous pate
Is full of Blackstone and of Kent;
Yet not insensible is he,
O genial Massic flood! to thee.
Why, even Cato used to take
A modest, surreptitious nip
At meal-times for his stomach's sake,
Or to forefend la grippe.

How dost thou melt the stoniest hearts,
And bare the cruel knave's design;
How through thy fascinating arts
We discount Hope, O gracious wine!
And passing rich the poor man feels
As through his veins thy affluence steals.

Now, prithee, make us frisk and sing,
And plot full many a naughty plot
With damsels fair--nor shall we care
Whether school keeps or not!
And whilst thy charms hold out to burn
We shall not deign to go to bed,
But we shall paint creation red;
So, fill, sweet wine, this friend of mine,--
My lawyer friend, as aforesaid. 

To A Bully

Poem for the Day

To A Bully
by Eugene Field (1850-1895 --- yes, there were bullies in the late 1800s)

You, blatant coward that you are,
Upon the helpless vent your spite.
Suppose you ply your trade on me;
Come, monkey with this bard, and see
How I'll repay your bark with bite!

Ay, snarl just once at me, you brute!
And I shall hound you far and wide,
As fiercely as through drifted snow
The shepherd dog pursues what foe
Skulks on the Spartan mountain-side.

The chip is on my shoulder--see?
But touch it and I'll raise your fur;
I'm full of business, so beware!
For, though I'm loaded up for bear,
I'm quite as like to kill a cur! 

The Wanderer

Poem of the Day

The Wanderer
by Eugene Field

Upon a mountain height, far from the sea,
I found a shell,
And to my listening ear the lonely thing
Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing,
Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell.

How came the shell upon that mountain height?
Ah, who can say
Whether there dropped by some too careless hand,
Or whether there cast when Ocean swept the Land,
Ere the Eternal had ordained the Day?

Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep,
One song it sang,--
Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide,
Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide,--
Ever with echoes of the ocean rang.

And as the shell upon the mountain height
Sings of the sea,
So do I ever, leagues and leagues away,--
So do I ever, wandering where I may,--
Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! of thee.