How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another’s will;
Whose armour is his honest thought
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Not tied unto the world by care
Of public fame, or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise
Or vice; Who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:
Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make accusers great;
Who God doth late and early pray— Sir H. Wotton
More of His grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend;
I know a stream
Than which no lovelier flows.
Its banks a-gleam
With yarrow and wild rose,
Singing it goes
And shining through my dream.
Its waters glide
Beneath the basking noon,
A magic tide
That keeps perpetual June.
There the light sleeps
Unstirred by any storm;
The wild mouse creeps
Through tall weeds hushed and warm;
And the shy snipe,
With sudden pipe
Awakes the dreaming shade.
So long ago!— Charles G. D. Roberts
Still, still my memory hears
Its silver flow
Across the sundering years,—
Its roses glow,
Ah, through what longing tears!
When the cloud comes down the mountain,
And the rain is loud on the leaves,
And the slim flies gather for shelter
Under my cabin eaves,
Then my heart goes out to earth,— Charles G. D. Roberts
With the swollen brook runs free,
Drinks life with the drenched brown roots,
And climbs with the sap in the tree.
Let others cheer the winning man,— anonymous poem, found in The Book o Virtues, ed. by W. J. Bennett
There’s one I hold worthwhile;
Tis he who does the best he can,
Then loses with a smile.
On the caves of time
again they draw their lines
and circles. Earthmen. Born to prove
that they can reason and compute
a way to survive.
Now primitives in space,
they hunt with atom spears
the bright eye targets of the night,
and cry their mammoth victories
across the cosmic waste.
There they create anew
high mysteries and truths,
with satellites as shrines, and wire
the electronic brain they use
to command the light.
— Elizabeth Bartlett
O TO BE AN OSTRICH
believes there is nothing
good or bad
makes it so.
he has found
by taking his head
out of the ground
is a matter of foot
going faster than thought
Such logic— Elizabeth Bartlett
may well be envied—
for who can dispute
what can not be questioned
The poplars are fell’d, farewell to the shade
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view
Of my favorite field, and the bank where they grew:
And now in the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.
The blackbird has fled to another retreat
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;
And the scene where his melody charm’d me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
‘Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,— W. Cowper
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see,
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.