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Poem for the Day

Posted: 22 July 2013

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

A Psalm of Life
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807 - 1882

New Zealand Tour Haiku #25

Posted: 21 July 2013

Nature amplifies
And you become her silence.
Listen to your soul.

Bill Adair

Poem for the Day

Posted: 21 July 2013

I know a funny little man,
As quiet as a mouse,
Who does the mischief that is done
In everybody’s house.
There’s no one ever sees his face,
And yet we all agree
That every plate we break was cracked
By Mr Nobody.

‘Tis he who always tears our books,
Who leaves our doors ajar;
He pulls the buttons from our shirts,
And scatters pins afar,
That squeaking door will always squeak,
Because of this you see:
We leave the oiling to be done
By Mr Nobody.

He puts damp wood upon the fire,
So kettles cannot boil;
His are the feet that bring in mud
And all the carpets soil.
The papers always are mislaid,
Who had them last but he?
There’s no one tosses them about
But Mr Nobody

The finger marks upon the door
By none of us are made;
We never leave the blinds unclosed,
To let the curtains fade.
The ink we never spill; the boots
That lying round you see
Are not our boots,—they all belong
To Mr Nobody.
 

Mr Nobody
Walter de la Mare 1873 - 1958

New Zealand Tour Haiku # 24

Posted: 20 July 2013

Tropical valleys
Through the dark Brynderwyn Hills
Cymraeg New Zealand.

Bill Adair

Poem for the Day

Posted: 20 July 2013

Love is...

Love is feeling cold in the back of vans
Love is a fanclub with only two fans
Love is walking holding paintstained hands

Love is.

Love is fish and chips on winter nights
Love is blankets full of strange delights
Love is when you don't put out the light

Love is

Love is the presents in Christmas shops
Love is when you're feeling Top of the Pops
Love is what happens when the music stops

Love is

Love is white panties lying all forlorn
Love is pink nightdresses still slightly warm
Love is when you have to leave at dawn

Love is

Love is you and love is me
Love is prison and love is free
Love's what's there when you are away from me

Love is...

Love Is
Adrian Henri 1932 - 2000

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