Vital spark of heav’nly flame!
Quit, O quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, flying,
O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears!
Heav’n opens my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?.
~Alexander Pope
Six humans trapped by happenstance In dark and bitter cold
Each one possessed a stick of wood, Or so the story’s told.
Their dying fire in need of logs, The first woman held hers back.
For on the faces around the fire, She noticed one was black.
The next man looking cross the way, Saw one not of his church,
And couldn’t bring himself to give The fire his stick of birch.
The third one sat in tattered clothes, He gave his coat a hitch.
Why should his log be put to use, To warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat back and thought Of the wealth he had in store.
And how to keep what he had earned From the lazy, shiftless poor.
The black man’s face bespoke revenge As the fire passed from sight,
For all he saw in his stick of wood Was a chance to spite the white.
The last man of this forlorn group Did naught except for gain
Giving only to those who gave Was how he played the game.
The logs held tight in death’s still hands Was proof of human sin.
They didn’t die from the cold without, They died from —THE COLD WITHIN.
~James Patrick Kinney
Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,
Sing, Heav’nly Muse, that, on the secret top
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire
That shepherd who first taught the chosen seed
In the beginning how the Heav’ns and Earth
Rose out of Chaos; or, if Sion hill
Delight thee more, and Siloa’s brook that flow’d
Fast by the oracle of God, I thence
Invoke thy aid to my advent’rous song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar
Above th’ Aonian mount, while it pursues
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.
And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer
Before all temples th’ upright heart and pure,
Instruct me, for thou know’st; thou from the first
Wast present, and, with mighty wings outspread,
Dovelike sat’st brooding on the vast abyss,
And mad’st it pregnant: what in me is dark
Illumine; what is low, raise and support;
That, to the height of this great argument,
I may assert Eternal Providence,
And justify the ways of God to men.
~John Milton
One song can spark a moment,
One flower can wake the dream.
One tree can start a forest,
One bird can herald spring.
One smile begins a friendship,
One handclasp lifts a soul.
One star can guide a ship at sea,
One word can frame the goal
One vote can change a nation,
One sunbeam lights a room
One candle wipes out darkness,
One laugh will conquer gloom.
One step must start each journey.
One word must start each prayer.
One hope will raise our spirits,
One touch can show you care.
One voice can speak with wisdom,
One heart can know what’s true,
One life can make a difference,
You see, its up to you!
~Author Unknown
If you think you are beaten, you are;
If you think that you dare not, you don’t;
If you’d like to win and you think you can’t
It’s almost certain that you won’t.
If you think you’ll lose, you’ve lost;
For out in the world you’ll find
Success begins with a fellows will –
It’s all in the state of mind.
If you think that you are out-classed, you are;
You’ve got to think high to rise;
You’ve got to be sure of yourself before
You can ever win a prize.
Life’s battles don’t always go
To the stronger or faster man;
But sooner or later, the man who wins
Is the man who thinks he can.
~Author Unknown
There are many kinds of hatred, as many kinds of fire;
And some are fierce and fatal with murderous desire;
And some are mean and craven, revengeful, sullen, slow,
They hurt the man that holds them more than they hurt his foe.
And yet there is a hatred that purifies the heart:
The anger of the better against the baser part,
Against the false and wicked, against the tyrant’s sword,
Against the enemies of love, and all that hate the Lord.
O cleansing indignation, O flame of righteous wrath,
Give me a soul to feel thee and follow in thy path!
Save me from selfish virtue, arm me for fearless fight,
And give me strength to carry on, a soldier of the Right!
~Henry Van Dyke
Not to the swift, the race:
Not to the strong, the fight:
Not to the righteous, perfect grace:
Not to the wise, the light.
But often faltering feet
Come surest to the goal;
And they who walk in darkness meet
The sunrise of the soul.
A thousand times by night
The Syrian hosts have died;
A thousand times the vanquished right
Hath risen, glorified.
The truth the wise men sought
Was spoken by a child;
The alabaster box was brought
In trembling hands defiled.
Not from my torch, the gleam,
But from the stars above:
Not from my heart, life’s crystal stream,
But from the depths of Love.
~Henry Van Dyke
God looked around His garden and He found an empty place.
He then looked down upon the earth and saw your tired face.
He put His arms around you and lifted you to rest.
God’s garden must be beautiful, He always takes the best.
He knew that you were suffering.
He knew you were in pain.
He knew that you would never get well on earth again.
He saw the road was getting rough and the hills are hard to climb.
So He closed your weary eyelids and whispered “Peace be thine.”
It broke our hearts to lose you, but you didn’t go alone, for part of us went with you, the day God called you home.
~Author Unknown
In Memory of Emma Jean S. Nelson
(June 16, 1931 – March 29, 2014)
The little cares that fretted me
I lost them yesterday
Among the fields, above the sea,
Among the winds at play,
Among the lowing of the herds,
The rustling of the trees,
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees.
The foolish fears of what might happen,
I cast them all away,
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new-mown hay,
Among the husking of the corn,
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born–
Out in the fields with God.
~ No Consensus on Authorship
- Some websites and communities (such as Poetry.com and Brainly) attribute the poem to Elizabeth Barrett Browning, but these are not considered scholarly sources. [poetry.com], [brainly.ph]
- Other sources (such as Poemist and EliteSkills) list the poem as written by “Anonymous” or “Anonymous British,” suggesting the true author is unknown. [eliteskills.com], [poemist.com]
- LiederNet, a reputable database for song texts, attributes the poem to Louise Imogen Guiney (1861–1920), not Browning. [lieder.net]
Inscription Inside the Lubeck Cathedral in Germany
Ye call Me Master and obey Me not,
Ye call Me Light and see Me not,
Ye call Me Way and walk not,
Ye call Me Life and desire Me not,
Ye call Me wise and follow Me not,
Ye call Me fair and love Me not,
Ye call Me rich and ask Me not,
Ye call Me eternal and seek Me not,
Ye call Me gracious and trust Me not,
Ye call Me noble and serve Me not,
Ye call Me mighty and honor Me not,
Ye call Me just and fear Me not,
If I condemn you, blame Me not.
~Anonymous
Additional Study Material on this poem can be found by clicking Here.