Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines by Pablo Neruda

The Human Heart

It is a funny thing when ones heart seems to be raptured by love. All sorts of things happen as words burst out like the melody of song birds in the early morning. And we seemingly flutter across our worldly domain as our smiles radiate as bright as the mid day sun. And our once dim eyes seem to take on the dawning beauty of the firmament. If only our hearts would take command of the body, we would take flight to the highest peaks as we perch our lofty hearts upon the mountain tops crowned with majestic beauty!

copyright by Chad Lindsey

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: The Village Blacksmith

UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Psalm of Life

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 are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

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

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 sand of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solenm 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 labor and to wait.

Enchanted

Through the timber,
A Shimmering light appears,
Dazzling and alluring,
Enticing me who was near.

While a gentle breeze,
Flutters through the overgrowth,
Rousing the heart,
And bringing me at ease.

While the effervescent melody,
Resonates in this angelic place,
Where the birds are at play,
And my enchanted heart serenades in harmony.

With jubilant glow,
I traverse the mystical dwelling,
And smiling from ear to ear,
My exuberance overflowing.

by Chad Lindsey

The Journey

Down in the sleepy hollows,
A place yet so familiar,
With leaves rustling underneath me,
A pervading silence hovers over,
To which I can not follow.

Above me are the birds,
Who frolic in their toil,
A work which is unknown to me,
Mysterious are the works of these little things,
Who knoweth not me.

Onward I go,
Down mother nature’s steps,
To a world unknown,
Hither I go,
Looking for home.

To what things are to be seen,
That have not been in thy heart,
For in such things,
I have longed to be.

Will I toil endlessly,
Or will this weary traveler find rest,
And will my heart be unraveled,
Or will it be left hopeless.

Such thoughts are prevalent,
That seep into the mind,
And leaves not the deepest recess of the heart untouched,
As though it were irrelevant.

So with bewildered gaze,
I search the horizon,
Plotting my next step,
Hoping to find my way.

To a place where my heart sinks,
Sinks into the myriad of love,
A love which is unknown to me.
To where my heart shall sing.

by Chad Lindsey

Hope Is the Thing With Feathers by Emily Dickinson

Lines Written In Early Spring by William Wordsworth

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:–
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

O ME! O life! by Walt Whitman

O ME! O life!… of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever
renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.
That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse

A Seed by William Allingham

See how a Seed, which Autumn flung down,
And through the Winter neglected lay,
Uncoils two little green leaves and two brown,
With tiny root taking hold on the clay
As, lifting and strengthening day by day,
It pushes red branchless, sprouts new leaves,
And cell after cell the Power in it weaves
Out of the storehouse of soil and clime,
To fashion a Tree in due course of time;
Tree with rough bark and boughs’ expansion,
Where the Crow can build his mansion,
Or a Man, in some new May,
Lie under whispering leaves and say,
“Are the ills of one’s life so very bad
When a Green Tree makes me deliciously glad?”
As I do now. But where shall I be
When this little Seed is a tall green Tree?