Posts Tagged ‘thoughts’


The hour of weariness – Midnight – attacks.
The yellow flame’s flicker is weak.
The wick, having worked, has burned down to the wax. 

The toil of the day takes its toll and it wracks
The candle and man till life’s bleak.
The hour of weariness – Midnight – attacks. 

The slope of sleep’s soothing sweet tunnel attracts,
Though Day clutches man with its beak.
The wick, having worked, has burned down to the wax. 

The cares of tomorrow add to the mind’s tax.
One wrestles, it seems, for a week.
The hour of weariness – Midnight – attacks. 

Oh! for a pinch to the flame to relax
The light-load; bring rest that we seek!
The wick, having worked, has burned down to the wax. 

The sandman has tried, but his sand supply lacks.
The sheep flock? – the worry wolves wreak.
The hour of weariness – Midnight – attacks.
The wick, having worked, has burned down to the wax.


photo by Camilla Hviid at


© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.


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It is a certainty that all men dream
And plan to do more than they ever do,
That thoughts come to the eyes as sudden gleam
And yet so many do not follow through.

Most men are quick to promise and to say,
To volunteer, step forward in the rank.
They plan to do those things another day;
But many actions stay inside the bank.

It is a simple thing to move the heart,
Or stir the mind to fashion and suggest.
Oft thought and deed ne’er wed, remain apart.
The stolid body tends to stay at rest.

Our acts must one day good intentions match
For, eggs go rotten if they never hatch.


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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Talk happiness.  The world is sad enough
Without your woes.  No path is wholly rough;
Look for the places that are smooth and clear,
And speak of those, to rest the weary ear
Of Earth, so hurt by one continuous strain
Of human discontent and grief and pain.

Talk faith.  The world is better off without
Your uttered ignorance and morbid doubt.
If you have faith in God, or man, or self,
Say so.  If not, push back upon the shelf
Of silence all your thoughts, till faith shall come;
No one will grieve because your lips are dumb.

Talk health.  The dreary, never-changing tale
Of mortal maladies is worn and stale.
You cannot charm, or interest, or please
By harping on that minor chord, disease.
Say you are well, or all is well with you,
And God shall hear your words and make them true.


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The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist:
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gush’d from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start.

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice;
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be fill’d with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

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