Poem for the Day

Posted: 4 May 2013

Not understood, we move along asunder;
Our paths grow wider as the seasons creep
Along the years; we marvel and we wonder
Why life is life, and then we fall asleep
Not understood.

Not understood, we gather false impressions
And hug them closer as the years go by;
Till virtues often seem to us transgressions;
And thus men rise and fall, and live and die
Not understood.

Not understood! Poor souls with stunted vision
Oft measure giants with their narrow gauge;
The poisoned shafts of falsehood and derision
Are oft impelled 'gainst those who mould the age,
Not understood.

Not understood! The secret springs of action
Which lie beneath the surface and the show,
Are disregarded; with self-satisfaction
We judge our neighbours, and they often go
Not understood.

Not understood! How trifles often change us!
The thoughtless sentence and the fancied slight
Destroy long years of friendship, and estrange us,
And on our souls there falls a freezing blight;
Not understood.

Not understood! How many breasts are aching
For lack of sympathy! Ah! day by day
How many cheerless, lonely hearts are breaking!
How many noble spirits pass away,
Not understood.

O God! that men would see a little clearer,
Or judge less harshly where they cannot see!
O God! that men would draw a little nearer
To one another, -- they'd be nearer Thee,
And understood.

Not Understood
Thomas Bracken 1843 - 1898

Poem for the Day

Posted: 3 May 2013

So what is Love? If thou wouldst know
The human heart alone can tell:
Two minds with but a single thought,
Two hearts that beat as one.

And whence comes Love? Like morning bright
Love comes without thy call.
And how dies Love? A spirit bright,
Love never dies at all

So What Is Love?
Maria Lovell 1803 - 1877

Poem for the Day

Posted: 2 May 2013

My young love said to me,
"My bothers won't mind
And my parents won't slight you
For your lack of kind."
Then she stepped away from me
And this she did say:
"It will not be long, Love,
Till our wedding day."

She stepped away from me
And she moved through the fair
And fondly I watched her
Go here and go there.
Then she made her way homeward,
With one star awake,
As the swan in the evening
Moved over the lake.

The people were saying,
No two e'er were wed
But one had a sorrow
That never was said,
And I smiled as she passed
With her goods and her gear,
And that was the last
That I saw of my dear.

I dreamed it last night
That my young love came in.
So softly she entered,
Her feet made no din.
She came close beside me,
And this she did say,
"It will not be long, love,
'Til our wedding day."

She Moved Through The Fair
Padraic Colum 1881 - 1972

Poem for the Day

Posted: 1 May 2013

A fire-mist and a planet,
A crystal and a cell,
A jelly-fish and a saurian,
And caves where the cave-men dwell;
Then a sense of law and beauty
And a face turned from the clod -
Some call it Evolution,
And others call it God.

A haze on the far horizon,
The infinite, tender sky,
The ripe rich tint of the cornfields,
And the wild geese sailing high -
And all over upland and lowland
The charm of the golden-rod -
Some of us call it Autumn
And others call it God.

Like tides on a crescent sea-beach,
When the moon is new and thin,
Into our hearts high yearnings
Come welling and surging in -
Come from the mystic ocean,
Whose rim no foot has trod, -
Some of us call it Longing,
And others call it God.

A picket frozen on duty,
A mother starved for her brood,
Socrates drinking the hemlock,
And Jesus on the rood;
And millions who, humble and nameless,
The straight, hard pathway plod, -
Some call it Consecration,
And others call it God.

Each In His Own Tongue
William Herbert Carruth 1859 - 1924

Poem for the Day

Posted: 30 April 2013

The sounds in the evening go all through the house,
The click of the clock and the pick of the mouse,
The footsteps of people upon the top floor,
The skirt of my mother, that brushes past the door.

The crick of the boards and the creak of the chairs,
The fluttering murmurs outside on the stairs,
The ring of the bell and the arrival of guests,
The laugh of my father at one of his jests.

The clashing of dishes as dinner goes in,
The babble of voices that distance makes thin,
The mewing of cats that seems just by my ear,
The hooting of owls that can never seem near.

The queer little noises that no one explains,
Till the moon through the slats of my window blind rains,
And the world of my eyes and my ears melts like steam,
As I find in my pillow the world of my dream.

The Sounds In The Evening
Eleanor Farejon 1881 - 1965

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