I would rather silent be;
If I cannot sing of cheer,
I will never let you hear
Any song of dole from me.
Let no dirge escape my lips,
Rather song that gayly trips
Than a slow and mournful tone;
Let me sing a song of pleasure,
In a romping sort of measure,
But my woe I’ll bear alone.
Similar Posts
This I think as I go my way:
And what can matter the false or trueOf any deed I am moved to do?This I think as I go along:What can matter my right or wrong?Whichever path I may choose to take,What possible difference can it make?This I think as I go to town:What can matter my smile or frown?Can any one’s destiny altered…
When we’ve honored the heroes returning from France,
When we’ve done all we can for the home-coming man,Who stood to the shot and the shell,Let us all keep in mind those who lingered behind—The thousands who waited to go—The brave and the true who did all they could do,Yet have only the silver to show.They went from their homes at the summons for…
IT doesn’t seem a year ago that I was tumbling out of bed,
And puttering round the kitchen stove, while chills ran up and down my formAs I stood there and waited for her bottled dinner to get warm;Then sampled it to see that it was not too hot or not too cool,That doesn’t seem a year ago, and now she’s trudging off to school.It doesn’t seem a…
Under the toiler’s grimy shirt,
Under the rough outside you view,Is a man who thinks and feels as you.Go talk with him,Go walk with him,Sit down with him by a running stream,Away from the things that are hissing steam,Away from his bench,His hammer and wrench,And the grind of needAnd the sordid deed,And this you’ll findAs he bares his mind:In the…
If I knew a better land on this glorious world of ours,
If the Briton or the Frenchman had an easier life than mine.I’d pack my goods this minute and I’d sail across the brine.But I notice when an alien wants a land of hope and cheerAnd a future for his children, he comes out and settles here.Here’s the glorious land of Freedom.Here’s the milk and honey…
Last night he said the dead were dead
I found him at a tulip bedWhen I passed by at morn.‘O ho!’ said I, ‘the frost is nearAnd mist is on the hills,And yet I find you planting hereTulips and daffodils.’”Tis time to plant them now,’ he said,‘If they shall bloom in Spring’;‘But every bulb,’ said I, ‘seems dead,And such an ugly thing.’‘The pulse…