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Thursday, September 20, 2007

Sonnet VII - John Milton

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure ev'n
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n:
All is, if I have grace to use it so
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

A Psalm of Life - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

              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 labor and to wait.