POEMS, QUOTES, AND MORE




Among those whom I like or admire

I can find no common denominator,

but among those whom I love,

I can:

all of them make me laugh.

W.H. Alden




HOME


It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it

home,

A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes

have t' roam

Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef'

behind,

An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus

on yer mind.

It don't make any differunce how rich ye get

t' be,

How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great

yer luxury;

It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a

king,

Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped 'round

everything.


Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up

in a minute;

Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin'

in it;

Within the wall there's to t' be some babies

born, and then

Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women

good, an' men;

And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye

wouldn't part

With anything they ever used-they're grown

into yer heart:

The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the

little shoes they wore

Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb-

marks on the door.


Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t'

sit an' sigh

An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know

that Death is nigh;

An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's

angel come,

An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave

her sweet voice dumb.

Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an'

when yer tears are dried,

Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an'

sanctified;

An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant

memories

O' her that was an' is no more-ye can't escape

from these.


Ye've got t' sing and dance fer years, ye've got

t' romp and play,

An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em

each day;

Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom

year by year

Afore they 'come a part of ye, suggestin'

someone dear

Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em

jes' t' run

The way they do, so's they would get the early

mornin' sun;

Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from

celler up t' dome:

It takes a heap o' living in a house t' make it

home.


Edgar A. Guest (1881-1951)








In those vernal seasons of the year, when the air is calm

and pleasant, it were an injury and sulleness against

Nature not to go out and see her riches, and partake

in her rejoicing with heaven and earth.


John Milton (1608-74)




How Did You Die?

Did you tackle the trouble that came your way

With a resolute heart and cheerful?

Or hide your face from the light of day

With a craven soul and fearful?

Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,

Or a trouble is what you make it.

And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,

But only how did you take it?


You are beaten to earth?  Well, well, what's that?

Come up with a smiling face.

It's nothing against you to fall down flat,

But to lie there-that's disgrace.

The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce;

Be proud of your blackened eye!

It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;

It's how did you fight and why?


And though you be done to death, what then?

If you've battled the best you could;

If you played your part in the world of men,

Why, the Critic will call it good.

Death come with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,

And whether he's slow or spry,

It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,

But only, how did you die?


Edmund Vance Cooke (1866-1932)



Happiness is as a butterfly, which, when pursued,

is always beyond our grasp, but which, if you will sit

down quietly, may alight upon you.


Nathaniel Hawthorn (1804-64)





 
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