The Old, Old Song

Charles Kingsley

When all the world is young, lad,
  And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
  And every lass a queen,—
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
  And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
  And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,
  And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
  And all the wheels run down,—
Creep home, and take your place there,
  The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there
  You loved when all was young.


by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

      EMEMBER me when I am gone away,
      Gone far away into the silent land;
      When you can no more hold me by the hand,
      Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
      Remember me when no more day by day
      You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
      Only remember me; you understand
      It will be late to counsel then or pray.
      Yet if you should forget me for a while
      And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
      For if the darkness and corruption leave
      A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
      Better by far you should forget and smile
      Than that you should remember and be sad.


Tears Idle Tears  

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

When Tomorrow Starts Without Me
( David Romano )

When tomorrow starts without me
and I'm not here to see... 

If the sun should rise and find your

eyes filled with tears for me, 

I wish so much you wouldn't cry
the way you did today... 

While thinking of the many things

we didn't get to say. 

I know how much you love me, 
as much as I love you... 

And each time you think of me, 

I know you'll miss me, too. 

But when tomorrow starts without me,
please try to understand... 

That Jesus came and called my name

and took me by the hand, 

And said my place was ready
in heaven far above... 

And that I'd have to leave behind

all those I dearly love. 

So when tomorrow starts without me,
don't think we're far apart... 

For every time you think of me,

I'm right here in your heart.


      The Beggar Maid   
      Alfred Lord Tennyson
      Her arms across her breast she laid;
         She was more fair than words can say;
      Barefooted came the beggar maid
         Before the king Cophetua.
      In robe and crown the king stept down,
         To meet and greet her on her way;
      ‘It is no wonder,’ said the lords,
         ‘She is more beautiful than day.’

      As shines the moon in clouded skies,
         She in her poor attire was seen;
      One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
         One her dark hair and lovesome mien.
      So sweet a face, such angel grace,
         In all that land had never been.
      Cophetua sware a royal oath:
         ‘This beggar maid shall be my queen!’





      "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."
      by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
      How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
      I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
      My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
      For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
      I love thee to the level of everyday's
      Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
      I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
      I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
      I love thee with a passion put to use
      In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
      I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
      With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
      Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
      I shall but love thee better after death.




          Walter De la Mare. 1873–
          SOFTLY along the road of evening, 
              In a twilight dim with rose, 
          Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew 
              Old Nod, the shepherd, goes. 
          His drowsy flock streams on before him,         5
              Their fleeces charged with gold, 
          To where the sun's last beam leans low 
              On Nod the shepherd's fold. 
          The hedge is quick and green with briar, 
              From their sand the conies creep;  10
          And all the birds that fly in heaven 
              Flock singing home to sleep. 
          His lambs outnumber a noon's roses, 
              Yet, when night's shadows fall, 
          His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,  15
              Misses not one of all. 
          His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, 
              The waters of no-more-pain; 
          His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, 
              "Rest, rest, and rest again."



                                       music ~ The Air that I breathe"




Lachin Y Gair, 1807

Lord Byron

                    Away, ye gay landscapes, ye garden of roses!
                        In you let the minions of luxury rove;
                    Restore me to the rocks, where the snowflake reposes,
                        Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
                    Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
                        Round their white summits though elements war;
                    Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
                        I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.

                    Ah!  there my young footsteps in infancy wandered;
                        My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;
                    On chieftains long perished my memory pondered,
                        As daily I strode through the pine-covered glade;
                    I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
                        Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
                    For fancy was cheered by traditional story,
                        Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.

                    "Shades of the dead!  have I not heard your voices
                        Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"
                    Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
                        And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale.
                    Rouch Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers,
                        Winter presides in his cold icy car:
                    Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;
                        They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.

                    "Ill-starred, though brave, did no visions foreboding
                        Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?"
                    Ah!  were you destined to die at Culloden,
                        Victory crowned not your fall with applause:
                    Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber,
                        You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar;
                    The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number,
                        Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.

                    Years have rolled on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
                        Years must elapse ere I tread you again:
                        Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
                        Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
                    England!  thy beauties are tame and domestic
                        To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar:
                    Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!
                        The steep frowning glories of the dark Loch na Garr.


  I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
I shun the love that lurks in all delight--
The love of thee--and in the blue heaven's height,
And in the dearest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng
This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;
But it must never, never come in sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away,--
With the first dream that comes with the first sleep
I run, I run, I am gather'd to thy heart.

Alice Meynell



A Prayer by Max Ehrmann


Let me do my work each day; and if the darkened hours of despair
overcome me, may I not forget the strength that comforted me
in the desolation of other times. 

May I still remember the bright hours that found me walking over
the silent hills of my childhood, or dreaming on the margin of a quiet
river, when a light glowed within me, and I promised my early God
to have courage amid the tempests of the changing years. 

Spare me from bitterness and from the sharp passions of unguarded
moments. May I not forget that poverty and riches are of the spirit. 
Though the world knows me not, may my thoughts and actions be
such as shall keep me friendly with myself. 

Lift up my eyes from the earth, and let me not forget the uses of the
stars.  Forbid that I should judge others lest I condemn myself. 
Let me not follow the clamor of the world, but walk calmly in my

Give me a few friends who will love me for what I am; and keep ever
burning before my vagrant steps the kindly light of hope. 

And though age and infirmity overtake me, and I come not within
sight of the castle of my dreams, teach me still to be thankful for
life, and for time's olden memories that are good and sweet; and
may the evening's twilight find me gentle still. 


- Max Ehrmann

"People are often unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered; forgive them anyway.
If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives; be kind anyway.
If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you; be honest and frank anyway.
You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and God; it was never between you and them anyway." Mother Theresa