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.
A BAG OF TOOLS
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
GOD IS NEAR
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.
THE WINDS OF FATE
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
GOOD AND CLEVER
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.