My Mind To Me A Kingdom Is
My mind to me a kingdom is;
Such present joys therein I find,
That it excels all other bliss
That earth affords of grows by kind;
Though much I want which most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
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 tahn my 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.
I laugh not at another's loss;
I grudge not at another's gain;
No worldly wave my mind can toss;
My state at one doth still remain:
I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread my end.
My wealth is health and perfect ease;
My conscience clear my chief defence;
I never seek by bribes to please,
Nor by desert to give offence.
Thus do I live, thus will I die;
Would all did so as well as I!
-- Edward Dyer
Goshen!
"How
can you live in Goshen?"
Said a friend from afar,
"This wretched country town
Where folks talk little things all year,
And plant their cabbage by the moon!"
Said I:
"I do not live in Goshen,-
I eat here, sleep here, work here;
I live in Greece,
Where Plato taught,
And Phidias carved,
And Epictetus wrote.
I dwell in Italy,
Where Cicero penned immortal lines,
And Dante sang undying songs.
Think not my life is small
Because you see a puny place;
I have my books; I have my dreams;
A thousand souls have left for me
Enchantment that transcends
Both time and place.
And so I live in Paradise,
Not here."
--Edgar Frank
A Plea
Give me one friend, just one, who meets
The needs of all my varying moods;
Be we in noisy city streets,
Or in dear Nature's solitudes.
One who can let the World go by,
And suffer not a minute's pang;
Who'd dare to shock propriety
With me, and never care a hang.
Who, in my rarely righteous streaks,
Should love me,-love me not the less
When I am given to outbreaks
Of pure, besotted selfishness.
One who, when I am sick and glum,
Can lay conventions on the shelf,
And just for my dear sake become
A blooming heathen, like myself.
One who can share my grief or mirth,
And know my daty to praise or curse;
And rate me just for what I'm worth,
And find me still,-oh, not so worse!
Give me one friend, for peace of war,
And I shall hold myself well-blest,
And richly compensated for
The cussedness ofa all the rest.
--Esther
M. Clark
The
Homemaker's Prayer
Lord of all pots and pans and things; since I've no time to be
A saint by doing lovely things, or watching late with Thee,
Or dreaming in the dawn light, or storming heaven's gate,
Make me a saint by getting meals, and washing up the plates.
Altho I must hace Martha's hands, I have a Mary mind:
And when I black the boots and shoes, Thy sandals, Lord, I find,
I think of how they trod the earth, what time I scrub the floor;
Accept this meditation, Lord, I haven't time for more.
Warm all the kitchen with Thy loce, and light with Thy peace;
Forgive me all my worrying, and make my grumbling cease,
Thou who didst love to give men food, in room or by the sea,
Accept this sevice that I do-I do it unto Thee.
Little
muddy footprint Tracking up the floor,
Sticky finger print upon The newly painted door,
Toys and books and cowboy guns Seldom put away,
Laughter ringing loud and clear Through each shining day,
Barking of a happy dog Joining in the fun,
Whispered prayers at Mother's knee When The day is done-
And little house can hold Happiness within
It if boasts the telltale marks Where a child has been.
--
Marguerite Gode
Those We
Love The Best
They say the world is round, and yet
I often think it square,
So many little hurts we get
From corners here and there.
But one great truth in life I've found,
While journeying to the West-
The only folks we really wound
Are those we love the best.
The man you thoroughly despise
Can rouse you wrath, 'tis true;
Annoyance in your heart will rise
At things mere strangers do;
But those are only passing ills;
This rule all lives will prove;
The rankling wound which aches and thrills
Is dealt by hands we love.
The choicest garb, the sweetest grace,
Are oft to strangers shown;
The careless mien, the frowning face,
Are given to our own.
We flatter those we scarely know,
We please the fleeting guest,
And deal full many a thoughtless blow
To those who love us best.
Love does not grow on every tree,
Nor true hearts yearly bloom.
Alas for those who only see
This cut across a tomb!
But, soon or later, the fact grows plain
To all through sorrow's test:
The only folks who give us pain
Are those we love the best.
--Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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