BEST LOVED POEMS Read online

  Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

  No princely pomp, no wealthy store,

  No force to win the victory,

  No wily wit to salve a sore,

  No shape to feed a loving eye;

  To none of these I yield as thrall:

  For why? My mind doth serve for all.

  I see how plenty surfeits oft,

  And hasty climbers soon do fall;

  I see that those which are aloft

  Mishap doth threaten most of all,

  They get with toil, they keep with fear;

  Such cares my mind could never bear.

  Content to live, this is my stay;

  I seek no more than may suffice;

  I press to bear no haughty sway;

  Look, what I lack my mind supplies:

  Lo, thus I triumph like a king,

  Content with that my mind doth bring.

  Some have too much, yet still do crave;

  I little have, and seek no more.

  They are but poor, though much they have,

  And I am rich with little store;

  They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;

  They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.

  SIR EDWARD DYES

  COUNT THAT DAY LOST If you sit down at set of sun

  And count the acts that you have done,

  And, counting find

  One self-denying deed, one word

  That eased the heart of him who heard;

  One glance most kind,

  That fell like sunshine where it went—

  Then you may count that day well spent.

  But if, through all the livelong day,

  You’ve cheered no heart, by yea or nay—

  If, through it all

  You’ve nothing done that you can trace

  That brought the sunshine to one face—

  No act most small

  That helped some soul and nothing cost—

  Then count that day as worse than lost.

  GEORGE ELIOT

  LITTLE THINGS Little drops of water,

  Little grains of sand,

  Make the mighty ocean

  And the pleasant land.

  Thus the little minutes,

  Humble though they be,

  Make the mighty ages

  Of eternity.

  JULIA A. FLETCHER

  THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD “He was a friend to man, and lived in a house

  by the side of the road”—Homer.

  There are hermit souls that live withdrawn

  In the peace of their self-content;

  There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart,

  In a fellowless firmament;

  There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths

  Where highways never ran;

  But let me live by the side of the road

  And be a friend to man.

  Let me live in a house by the side of the road,

  Where the race of men go by—

  The men who are good and the men who are bad,

  As good and as bad as I.

  I would not sit in the scorner’s seat,

  Or hurl the cynic’s ban;

  Let me live in a house by the side of the road

  And be a friend to man.

  I see from my house by the side of the road,

  By the side of the highway of life,

  The men who press with the ardor of hope,

  The men who are faint with the strife.

  But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears—

  Both parts of an infinite plan;

  Let me live in my house by the side of the road

  And be a friend to man.

  I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead,

  And mountains of wearisome height,

  That the road passes on through the long afternoon

  And stretches away to the night.

  But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,

  And weep with the strangers that moan,

  Nor live in my house by the side of the road

  Like a man who dwells alone.

  Let me live in my house by the side of the road

  Where the race of men go by—

  They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,

  Wise, foolish—so am I.

  Then why should I sit in the scorner’s seat

  Or hurl the cynic’s ban?—

  Let me live in my house by the side of the road

  And be a friend to man.

  SAM WALTER FOSS

  THE HUMAN TOUCH ’Tis the human touch in this world that counts,

  The touch of your hand and mine,

  Which means far more to the fainting heart

  Than shelter and bread and wine;

  For shelter is gone when the night is o’er,

  And bread lasts only a day,

  But the touch of the hand and the sound of the voice

  Sing on in the soul alway.

  SPENCER MICHAEL FREE

  YOUR MISSION If you cannot on the ocean

  Sail among the swiftest fleet,

  Rocking on the highest billows,

  Laughing at the storms you meet,

  You can stand among the sailors,

  Anchored yet within the bay;

  You can lend a hand to help them,

  As they launch their boats away.

  If you are too weak to journey

  Up the mountain, steep and high,

  You can stand within the valley,

  While the multitude go by.

  You can chant in happy measure,

  As they slowly pass along;

  Though they may forget the singer,

  They will not forget the song.

  If you have not gold and silver

  Ever ready to command,

  If you cannot toward the needy

  Reach an ever-open hand,

  You can visit the afflicted,

  O’er the erring you can weep;

  You can be a true disciple,

  Sitting at the Saviour’s feet.

  If you cannot in the conflict

  Prove yourself a soldier true,

  If where the fire and smoke are thickest

  There’s no work for you to do,

  When the battle field is silent,

  You can go with a careful tread;

  You can bear away the wounded,

  You can cover up the dead.

  Do not then stand idly waiting

  For some greater work to do;

  Fortune is a lazy goddess,

  She will never come to you.

  Go and toil in any vineyard,

  Do not fear to do or dare;

  If you want a field of labor,

  You can find it anywhere.

  ELLEN M. HUNTINGTON GATES

  LIKE MOTHER, LIKE SON Do you know that your soul is of my soul such a part,

  That you seem to be fibre and core of my heart?

  None other can pain me as you, dear, can do,

  None other can please me or praise me as you.

  Remember the world will be quick with its blame

  If shadow or stain ever darken your name.

  “Like mother, like son” is a saying so true

  The world will judge largely the “mother” by you.

  Be yours then the task, if task it shall be,

  To force the proud world to do homage to me.

  Be sure it will say, when its verdict you’ve won,

  “She reaped as she sowed. Lo! this is her son.”

  MARGARET JOHNSTON GRAFF

  MY NEIGHBOR’S ROSES The roses red upon my neighbor’s vine

  Are owned by him, but they are also mine.

  His was the cost, and his the labor, too,

  But mine as well as his the joy, their loveliness to view.

  They bloom for me and are for me as fair

  As for the man who gives them all his care.

>   Thus I am rich, because a good man grew

  A rose-clad vine for all his neighbors’ view.

  I know from this that others plant for me,

  And what they own, my joy may also be,

  So why be selfish, when so much that’s fine

  Is grown for you, upon your neighbor’s vine.

  ABRAHAM L. GRUBER

  MYSELF I have to live with myself, and so

  I want to be fit for myself to know,

  I want to be able, as days go by,

  Always to look myself straight in the eye;

  I don’t want to stand, with the setting sun,

  And hate myself for things I have done.

  I don’t want to keep on a closet shelf

  A lot of secrets about myself,

  And fool myself, as I come and go,

  Into thinking that nobody else will know

  The kind of a man I really am;

  I don’t want to dress up myself in sham.

  I want to go out with my head erect,

  I want to deserve all men’s respect;

  But here in the struggle for fame and pelf

  I want to be able to like myself.

  I don’t want to look at myself and know

  That I’m bluster and bluff and empty show.

  I can never hide myself from me;

  I see what others may never see;

  I know what others may never know,

  I never can fool myself, and so,

  Whatever happens, I want to be

  Self-respecting and conscience free.

  EDGAR A. GUEST

  LORD, MAKE A

  REGULAR MAN OUT OF ME This I would like to be—braver and bolder,

  Just, a bit wiser because I am older,

  just a bit kinder to those I may meet,

  Just a bit manlier taking defeat;

  This for the New Year my wish and my plea—

  Lord, make a regular man out of me.

  This I would like to be—just a bit finer,

  More of a smiler and less of a whiner,

  Just a bit quicker to stretch out my hand

  Helping another who’s struggling to stand,

  This is my prayer for the New Year to be,

  Lord, make a regular man out of me.

  This I would like to be—just a bit fairer,

  Just a bit better, and just a bit squarer,

  Not quite so ready to censure and blame,

  Quicker to help every man in the game,

  Not quite so eager men’s failings to see,

  Lord, make a regular man out of me.

  This I would like to be—just a bit truer,

  Less of the wisher and more of the doer,

  Broader and bigger, more willing to give,

  Living and helping my neighbor to live!

  This for the New Year my prayer and my plea—

  Lord, make a regular man out of me.

  EDGAR A. GUEST

  IT COULDN’T BE DONE Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,

  But he with chuckle replied

  That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one

  Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.

  So he buckled right in with tie trace of a grin

  On his face. If he worried he hid it.

  He started to sing as he tackled the thing

  That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

  Somebody scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;

  At least no one ever has done it”;

  But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,

  And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.

  With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,

  Without any doubting or quiddit,

  He started to sing as he tackled the thing

  That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

  There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,

  There are thousands to prophesy failure;

  There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,

  The dangers that wait to assail you.

  But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,

  Just take off your coat and go to it;

  Just start to sing as you tackle the thing

  That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

  EDGAR A. GUEST

  LOOK UP Look up and not down.

  Look forward and not back.

  Look out and not in.

  Lend a hand.

  EDWARD EVERETT HALE

  INVICTUS Out of the night that covers me,

  Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

  I thank whatever gods may be

  For my unconquerable soul

  In the fell clutch of circumstance

  I have not winced nor cried aloud.

  Under the bludgeonings of chance

  My head is bloody, but unbowed.

  Beyond this place of wrath and tears

  Looms but the Horror of the shade,

  And yet the menace of the years

  Finds and shall find me unafraid.

  It matters not how strait the gate,

  How charged with punishments the scroll,

  I am the master of my fate:

  I am the captain of my soul.

  WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY

  DUTY I slept and dreamed that life was Beauty:

  I woke and found that life was Duty:

  Was then thy dream a shadowy lie?

  Toil on, sad heart, courageously,

  And thou shalt find thy dream to be

  A noonday light and truth to thee.

  ELLEN S. HOOPER

  From ENDYMION A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

  Its loveliness increases; it will never

  Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

  A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

  Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

  JOHN KEATS

  ABSENCE What shall I do with all the days and hours

  That must be counted ere I see thy face?

  How shall I charm the interval that lowers

  Between this time and that sweet time of grace?

  Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense—

  Weary with longing? Shall I flee away

  In to past days, and with some fond pretence

  Cheat myself to forget the present day?

  Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin

  Of casting from me God’s great gift of time?

  Shall I, these mists of memory locked within,

  Leave and forget life’s purposes sublime?

  Oh, how or by what means may I contrive

  To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?

  How may I teach my drooping hope to live

  Until that blessed time, and thou art here?

  I’ll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold

  Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,

  In worthy deeds, each moment that is told

  While thou, beloved one! art far from me.

  For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try

  All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;

  For thy dear sake I will walk patiently

  Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.

  I will this dreary blank of absence make

  A noble task-time; and will therein strive

  To follow excellence, and to o’ertake

  More good than I have won since yet I live.

  So may this doomed time build up in me

  A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine;

  So may my love and longing hallowed be,

  And thy dear thought an influence divine.

  FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE

  A FAREWELL My fairest child, I have no song to give you;

  No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray;

  Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you

  For every day.

  Be good, swee
t maid, and let who will be clever;

  Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:

  And so make life, death, and that vast forever

  One grand, sweet song.

  CHARLES KINGSLEY

  IF— If you can keep your head when all about you

  Are losing theirs and blaming it on 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 too 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 impostors 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 up with wornout 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—