Opportunity

Master of human desires am I.

Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait,

Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate

Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by

Hovel, and mart, and palace, soon or late

I knock unbidden, once at every gate!

If sleeping, wake- if feasting, rise before

I turn away. It is the hour of fate,

And they who follow me reach every state

Mortals desire, and conquer every foe

Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate,

Condemned to failure, penury and woe,

Seek me in vain and uselessly implore-

I answer not, and I return no more.

- John James Ingalls

 And here are two other quotes I like about opportunity (something I always hope I have the wisdom to recognize and the courage to follow):

"Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work." 
-Thomas A. Edison

"Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor"
- Stephen Sondheim, "Into the Woods" 

He Shall Feed His Flock

The Mormon Tabernacle Choir sings this song ("Consider the Lilies" album), but it didn't occur to me until yesterday that it might be scripture. It's a beautiful verse:

"He shall feed his flock like a shepherd: he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom, and shall gently lead those that are with young." -Isaiah 40:11

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

- By My Son

Happy Veteran's Day

When I was a child, I learned how to play "The Caisson Song" on the piano (this was the original unofficial Army song that was later rewritten to "The Army Goes Rolling Along"). Whenever I played this song within earshot of my Grandpa, he would immediately reward me with a quarter, and on one occasion, one of his field artillery pins. He was a Colonel in the army, and took great pride in his service. This song/tune will forever remind me of him and the wonderful example of hard work, discipline, and patriotic duty that he provided me.

Over hill, over dale
As we hit the dusty trail,
And those caissons go rolling along.
In and out, hear them shout,
Counter march and right about,
And those caissons go rolling along.

Refrain :
Then it's hi! hi! hee!
In the field artillery,
Shout out your numbers loud and strong,
For where e'er you go,
You will always know
That those caissons go rolling along.

In the storm, in the night,
Action left or action right
See those caissons go rolling along
Limber front, limber rear,
Prepare to mount your cannoneer
And those caissons go rolling along.
Refrain :

Was it high, was it low,
Where the hell did that one go?
As those caissons go rolling along
Was it left, was it right,
Now we won't get home tonight
And those caissons go rolling along.
Refrain :

Zebra Question

I asked the zebra,
Are you black with white stripes?
Or white with black stripes?
And the zebra asked me,
Are you good with with bad habits?
Or are you bad with good habits?
Are you noisy with quiet times?
Or are you quiet with noisy times?
Are you happy with some sad days?
Or are you sad with some happy days?
Are you neat with some sloppy ways?
Or are you sloppy with some neat ways?
And on and on and on and on
And on and on he went.
I'll never ask a zebra
About stripes
Again.

-Shel Silverstein

I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

And in despair I bowed my head:

"There is no peace on earth," I said,

"For hate is strong and mocks of the song

Of peace on earth, good will to men."

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;

The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,

With peace on earth, good will to men."

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, (vs. 3 & 4)

Life Sculpture

Chisel in hand stood a sculptor boy

With his marble block before him,
And his eyes lit up with a smile of joy,
As an angel-dream passed o'er him.

He carved the dream on that shapeless stone,
With many a sharp incision;
With heaven's own light the sculpture shone,-
He'd caught that angel-vision.

Children of life are we, as we stand

With our lives uncarved before us,
Waiting the hour when, at God's command,
Our life-dream shall pass o'er us.

If we carve it then on the yielding stone,
With many a sharp incision,
Its heavenly beauty shall be our own,-
Our lives, that angel-vision.

-George Washington Doane

L'Envoi

When earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are

twisted and dried,
When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic
has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it- lie down for an
aeon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work
anew!

And those that were good will be happy: they shall sit in a
golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of
comet's hair;
They shall find real saints to draw from- Magdalene, Peter,
and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired
at all!

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master
shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work
for fame;
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his
separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things
as They Are!

-Rudyard Kipling

America For Me

'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down
Among the famous palaces and cities of renown,
To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of the kings,-
But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things.

So it's home again, and home again, America for me!
My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be,
In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars,
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air;
And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair;
And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome;
But when it comes to living there is no place like home.

I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions drilled;
I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing fountains filled;
But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day
In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her way!

I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to lack:
The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back.
But the glory of the Present is to make the Future free,-
We love our land for what she is and what she is to be.

Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me!
I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the rolling sea,
To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars,
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

-Henry Van Dyke

Happy Memorial Day

Oh, beautiful for heroes proved in liberating strife,
Who more than self their country loved, and mercy more than life!

-Katherine Lee Bates, "America the Beautiful", vs. 3

What a Wonderful World

I see trees of green, red roses too.
I see them bloom, for me and you.
And I think to myself, "What a wonderful world."

I see skies of blue and clouds of white,
The bright blessed day and the dark sacred night.
And I think to myself, "What a wonderful world."

The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky,
Are also on the faces of people going by.
I see friends shakin' hands sayin', "How do you do?"
They're really saying, "I love  you."

I hear babies cryin'. I watch them grow.
They'll learn much more than I'll ever know.
And I think to myself, "What a wonderful world."

Yes, I think to myself, "What a wonderful world."

-Louis Armstrong

He Died That We Might Live Again

He died that we might live again,
Lord Jesus, our Redeemer true.
He died on Calv'ry's lonely hill.
His life he gave for me and you.

He rose from the grave on Easter morn,
Our Savior and our King.
He showed his love for all mankind.
For his great love, give thanks and sing.

Rejoice! Rejoice! and sing, sing, sing.


- Thelma McKinnon Anderson

The Children's Hour

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the light is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence;
Yet I know by their merry eyes,
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret,
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine.

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all?

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there I will keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the wall shall crumble to ruin
And moulder in dust away.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming 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 to 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 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!

- Rudyard Kipling

Noel: Christmas Eve, 1913

A frosty Christmas Eve, when the stars were shining,
I traveled for the home, where westward falls the hill.
And for many, many a village, in the darkness of the valley,
distant music reached me, peels of bells were ringing.

Then spread my thoughts to olden times, to that first of Christmases
when shepherds who were watching, heard music in the fields.
And they sat there and they marveled,
and they knew they could not tell
whether it were angels, or the bright stars a singing.

But to me heard a far, it was starry music,
the singing of the angels, the comfort of our Lord.
Words of old that come a traveling, by the riches of the times,
and I softly listened, as I stood upon the hill.
And I softly listened, as I stood upon the hill.

- Robert Bridges

The Female of the Species

(This is kind of long, but amusing. Don't mess with Mama Bear!)

When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail,
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag, the wayside cobra, hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can,
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail-
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws-
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the others tale -
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations, worm and savage otherwise,
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise;
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger; Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue - to the scandal of the Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same,
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity - must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions - not in these her honor dwells -
She, the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else!

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate;
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions - in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him, who denies!
He will meet no cool discussion, but the instant, white-hot wild
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges - even so the she-bear fights;
Speech that drips, corrodes and poisons - even so the cobra bites;
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw,
And the victim writhes with anguish - like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of abstract justice - which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern; shall enthrall but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him and Her instincts never fail,
That the female of Her species is more deadly than the male!


-Rudyard Kipling

My Day Old Child

My day old child in my arms
with my lips against his ear
I whispered strongly "How I wish
I wish that you could hear,

"I've a hundred wonderful things to say
(a tiny cough and nod)
Hurry, hurry, hurry and grow
so I can tell you about God."

My day old baby's mouth was still
and my words only tickled his ear,
but a kind of light passed through his eyes,
and I saw this thought appear,

"How I wish I had a voice and words,
I've a hundred things to say,
Before I forget, I'd tell you of God,
I left Him yesterday."

-Carol Lynn Pearson

Happy 4th of July!

"My Country, 'Tis of Thee"
My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing;
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrim's pride,
From ev'ry mountainside
Let freedom ring!

Our father's God, to thee,
Author of liberty,
To thee we sing;
Long may our land be bright
With freedom's holy light.
Protect us by thy might,
Great God, our King!

-Samuel F. Smith (verses 1 & 4)

"The Star-Spangled Banner"
Oh, thus be it ever, when free men shall stand
Between their loved homes and the wars desolation!
Blest with victr'y and peace, may the heav'n rescued land
Praise the Pow'r that hath made and preserved us a nation!
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust!"
And the star spangled banner In triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

-Francis Scott Key (verse 4)

Only a Dad

Only a dad with a tired face,
Coming home from the daily race,
Bringing little of gold or fame
To show how well he has played the game;
But glad in his heart that his own rejoice
To see him come home and to hear his voice.

Only a dad with a brood of four,
One of ten million men or more
Plodding along in the daily strife,
Bearing the whips and the scorns of life,
With never a whimper of pain or hate,
For the sake of those who at home await.

Only a dad, neither rich nor proud,
Merely one of the surging crowd,
Toiling and striving from day to day,
Facing whatever may come his way,
Silent whenever the harsh condemn,
And bearing it all for the love of them.

Only a dad, but he gives his all,
To smoothing the way for his children small,
Doing with courage stern and grim
The deeds that his father did for him.
These are the lines that for him I pen:
Only a dad, but the best of men.

-Edgar A. Guest

(I am grateful for the "best of men" in my life. Happy Father's Day!)

Spell Checker

(Here's a poem my English teacher in High School shared with us. I thought it was pretty clever).

Eye halve a spelling chequer
It came with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.

Eye strike a key and type a word
And weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me strait a weigh.

As soon as a mist ache is maid
It nose bee fore two long
And eye can put the error rite
Its rare lea ever wrong.

Eye have run this poem threw it I am shore your pleased two no Its letter perfect awl the weigh My chequer tolled me sew.

-Unknown