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Archive for the ‘O-R’ Category

“What is the real good?”
I ask in musing mood.

“Order,” said the law court;
“Knowledge,” said the school;
“Truth,” said the wise man;
“Pleasure,” said the fool;
“Love,” said the maiden;
“Beauty,” said the page;
“Freedom,” said the dreamer;
“Home,” said the sage;
“Fame,” said the soldier;
“Equity,” said the seer.
Spake my heart fully sad:
“The answer is not here.”
 

Then within my bosom
Softly this I heard:
“Each heart holds the secret:
‘Kindness’ is the word.”

 

 

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benjamin-harrison-2

(on the unveiling of his monument at Indianapolis –
October 27, 1908)

As tangible a form in History
The Spirit of this man stands forth as here
He towers in deathless sculpture, high and clear
Against the bright sky of his destiny.
Sprung of our oldest, noblest ancestry,
His pride of birth, a lofty as sincere,
Held kith and kin, as Country, ever dear –
Such was his sacred faith in you and me.
Thus, natively, from youth his work was one
Unselfish service in behalf of all –
Home, friends and sharers of his toil and stress;
Ay, loving all men and despising none,
And swift to answer every righteous call,
His life was one long deed of worthiness. 

The voice of Duty’s faintest whisper found
Him as alert as at her battle-cry –
When awful War’s battalions thundered by,
High o’er the havoc still he heard the sound
Of mothers’ prayers and pleadings all around;
And ever the despairing sob and sigh
Of stricken wives and orphan children’s cry
Made all our Land thrice consecrated ground.
So rang his “forward!” and so swept his sword –
On! – on! – till from the fire-and-cloud once more
Our proud Flag lifted in the glad sunlight
As though the very Ensign of the Lord
Unfurled in token that the strife was o’er,
And victory – as ever – with the right.

——————————————————

Benjamin Harris was the 23rd president of the United States.

 

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……When Age comes on! –
The deepening dusk is where the dawn
Once glittered splendid, and the dew,
In honey-drips from red rose-lips,
Was kissed away by me and you. –
And now across the frosty lawn
Black footprints trail, and Age comes on –
……And Age comes on!
And biting wild-winds whistle through
Our tattered hopes – and Age comes on!
……When Age comes on! –
O tide of raptures, long withdrawn,
Flow back in summer floods, and fling
Here at our feet our childhood sweet,
And all the songs we used to sing! …
Old loves, old friends – all dead and gone –
Our old faith lost – and Age comes on –
……And Age comes on!
Poor hearts! have we not anything
But longings left when Age comes on?

 

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Supinely we lie in the grove’s shady greenery,
Gazing, all dreamy-eyed, up through the trees, –
And as to the sight is the heavenly scenery,
So to the hearing the sigh of the breeze. 

We catch but vague rifts of the blue through the wavering
Boughs of the maples; and, alike undefined,
The whispers and lisps of the leaves, faint and quavering,
Meaningless falter and fall on the mind. 

The vine, with its beauty of blossom, goes rioting
Up by the casement, as sweet to the eye
As the trill of the robin is restful and quieting
Heard in a drowse with the dawn in the sky. 

And yet we yearn on to learn more of the mystery –
We see and we hear, but forever remain
Mute, blind and deaf to the ultimate history
Born of a rose or a patter of rain.

 

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Behold, one faith endureth still –
Let factions rail and creeds contend –
God’s mercy was, and is, and will
Be with us, foe and friend.

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‘Tis a lesson you should heed,
If at first you don’t succeed,
Try, try again;

Then your courage should appear,
For if you will persevere,
You will conquer, never fear
Try, try again;

Once or twice, though you should fail,
If you would at last prevail,
Try, try again;

If we strive, ’tis no disgrace
Though we do not win the race;
What should you do in the case?
Try, try again

If you find your task is hard,
Time will bring you your reward,
Try, try again

All that other folks can do,
Why, with patience, should not you?
Only keep this rule in view:
Try, try again.

 

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Confederate_Rebel_Flag

Furl that Banner, for ’tis weary;
Round its staff ’tis drooping dreary;
Furl it, fold it, it is best;
For there’s not a man to wave it,
And there’s not a sword to save it,
And there’s no one left to lave it
In the blood that heroes gave it;
And its foes now scorn and brave it;
Furl it, hide it–let it rest!

Take that banner down! ’tis tattered;
Broken is its shaft and shattered;
And the valiant hosts are scattered
Over whom it floated high.
Oh! ’tis hard for us to fold it;
Hard to think there’s none to hold it;
Hard that those who once unrolled it
Now must furl it with a sigh.

Furl that banner! furl it sadly!
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly.
And ten thousands wildly, madly,
Swore it should forever wave;
Swore that foeman’s sword should never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever,
Till that flag should float forever
O’er their freedom or their grave!

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it,
And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
Cold and dead are lying low;
And that Banner–it is trailing!
While around it sounds the wailing
Of its people in their woe.

For, though conquered, they adore it!
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it!
Weep for those who fell before it!
Pardon those who trailed and tore it!
But, oh! wildly they deplored it!
Now who furl and fold it so.

Furl that Banner! True, ’tis gory,
Yet ’tis wreathed around with glory,
And ’twill live in song and story,
Though its folds are in the dust;
For its fame on brightest pages,
Penned by poets and by sages,
Shall go sounding down the ages–
Furl its folds though now we must.

Furl that banner, softly, slowly!
Treat it gently–it is holy–
For it droops above the dead.
Touch it not–unfold it never,
Let it droop there, furled forever,
For its people’s hopes are dead!

 

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n59rxUo

Old wortermelon time is a-comin’ round again,
And they ain’t no man a-livin’ any tickleder’n me,
Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin ?
Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.

Oh! it’s in the sandy soil wortermelons does the best,
And it’s thare they’ll lay and waller in the sunshine and the dew
Tel they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyr breast;
And you bet I ain’t a-findin’ any fault with them; ain’t you?

They ain’t no better thing in the vegetable line;
And they don’t need much ?tendin’, as ev’ry farmer knows;
And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine,
I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows.

It’s some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red.
And it’s some says “The Little Californy” is the best;
But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head,
Is the old “Edingburg Mounting-sprout,” of the west.

You don’t want no punkins nigh your wortermelon vines ?
?Cause, some-way-another, they’ll spile your melons, shore; ?
I’ve seed ?em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines,
Which may be a fact you have heerd of before

But your melons that’s raised right and ?tended to with care,
You can walk around amongst ?em with a parent’s pride and joy,
And thump ?em on the heads with as fatherly a air
As ef each one of them was your little girl er boy.

I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin’ sound
When you split one down the back and jolt the halves in two,
And the friends you love the best is gethered all around ?
And you says unto your sweethart, “Oh, here’s the core fer you!”

And I like to slice ?em up in big pieces fer ?em all,
Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delight
As one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls,
And they holler fer some more, with unquenched appetite.

Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see ?em eat ?
A slice of wortermelon’s like a frenchharp in theyr hands,
And when they “saw” it through theyr mouth sich music can’t be beat ?
?Cause it’s music both the sperit and the stummick understands.

Oh, they’s more in wortermelons than the purty-colored meat,
And the overflowin’ sweetness of the worter squshed betwixt
The up’ard and the down’ard motions of a feller’s teeth,
And it’s the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood mixed.

Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away
To the summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn,
And the fadin’ afternoon of the long summer day,
And the dusk and dew a-fallin’, and the night a-comin’ on.

And thare’s the corn around us, and the lispin’ leaves and trees,
And the stars a-peekin’ down on us as still as silver mice,
And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and knees,
And the new-moon hangin’ ore us like a yeller-cored slice.

Oh! it’s wortermelon time is a-comin’ round again,
And they ain’t no man a-livin’ any tickleder’n me,
Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin ?
Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.

——————————————————————-

photo by Sanja Gjenero at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/n59rxUo/half+watermelon

 

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Friends, my heart is half aweary
Of its happiness to-night;
Though your songs are gay and cheery,
And your spirits feather-light,
There’s a ghostly music haunting
Still the heart of every guest
And a voiceless chorus chanting
That the Old Times were the best. 

Chorus: 

All about is bright and pleasant
With the sound of song and jest,
Yet a feeling’s ever present
That the Old Times were the best.

 

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O touch me with your hands –
………………….For pity’s sake!
My brow throbs ever on with such an ache
As only your cool touch may take away;
………………….And so, I pray
You, touch me with your hands!

Touch – touch me with your hands –
…………………..Smooth back the hair
You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair
That I did dream its gold would wear away,
…………………..And lo, to-day –
O touch me with your hands!

Just touch me with your hands,
…………………..And let them pass
My weary eyelids with the old caress,
And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way,
…………………..That Death may say:
He touched her with his hands.

 

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