I have an old ledger from the nineteen twenties that my grandmother gave me. The pages are yellow and frayed with age. It belonged to my mother. She recorded some of the very old ballads my grandmother used to sing and some poems. I started writing in it when I was about ten, recording poems that I had read and liked. I was looking through the ledger the other day for a particular poem and started reading some of the ones I had put there. Then I had the BRILLIANT idea, why not put these on my site. I still enjoy reading them so I hope you will too.



Isnít it strange

that princes and kings

and clowns that caper

in sawdust rings

and common people

like you and me

are builders for eternity?

Each is given a bag of tools,

a shapeless mass,

a book of rules;

and each must make

ere life is flown;

a stumbling block

or a stepping stone.

By R. L. Sharp



Sometimes when morning lights the sky

And gladness fills the air,

I feel like telling things to God

He seems so very near.

Sometimes when flowers are in bloom

And birds are singing clear,

I feel like singing things to God,

He must be very near.

Sometimes when work and play are done

And evening stars appear,

I feel like whispering things to God

He is so very near.




One ship sails east and another sails west,

With the selfsame winds that blow;

ĎTis the set of the sails

And not the gales

That determine the way they go.

Like the winds of the sea are the ways of fate,

As we voyage along through life;

ĎTis the set of the soul

That decides the goal

And not the calm or the strife.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox



If all the good people were clever

And all the clever people were good,

The world would be nicer than ever

We thought that it possibly could.

But alas, it is seldom or never

The two hit it off as they should

The good are so hard on the clever

The clever so rude to the good.





Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

sunward Iíve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth

of sun-split clouds and done a hundred things you

have not dreamed of, wheeled and soared and swung

high in the sunlit silence: hovíring there,

Iíve chased the shouting wind along and flung

my eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, the long, delirious, burning blue

Iíve topped the windswept heights with easy grace

where never lark, or even eagle flew

and, while the silent lifting mind Iíve trod

the high untrespassed sanctity of space,

put out my hand and touched the face of God.

By Pilot Officer

John Gillespie Magee Jr.

While flying 30,000 feet over

England. Shortly afterward, in 1941

he was killed at age 19 while serving with

the Royal Canadian Air Force.