DO NOT BORROW TROUBLE.
Do not ever trouble borrow;
You’ll find enough of it at home;
Find enough for self, and neighbor,
You will for it not have to roam.
Go not forth to meet sad Trouble,
For she with tears will e’er you greet.
But if given a cold greeting,
She will acknowledge her defeat.
Do not cross life’s troubled waters
While you are yet upon the land.
Do not feel that you are sinking
Beneath life’s drifting, shifting sand.
Though your life may seem a desert,
Of scorching winds, and burning sand;
You may find some green oasis,
Some beauty in a desert land.
Trouble is a turbid river.
On it you need not launch life’s boat.
Life has rivers calm and peaceful,
And placid streams on which to float.
You may never cross the river,
On troubled sea may not be tossed.
Though life’s bridge be weak and swaying,
By you, the bridge need not be crossed.
Do not think that you must carry
The burdens of life’s yesterday.
Do not look for grief tomorrow,
With courage live your life today.
You must rise above all trouble,
And keep it ever from your view;
It can ever then be vanquished,
And you can bid it glad adieu.
GIVE SMILES, NOT TEARS.
Give to the world your happy thoughts,
Too many give but tears.
A word, a thought, a deed full oft
Makes some heart sad, or cheers
Some lonely, weary, world sick soul,
Who now will drop his cares,
And even smile at his defeats,
And disappointment bears.
For in his heart is now a hope,
A hope for better things.
The world is now not half so sad,
And joy it even brings.
If you are sad, hide grief beneath
A happy smiling face.
No one is better for your tears,
Nor stronger for Life’s race.
Then bury grief within your heart,
And dig its grave full deep;
And cover it with flowers of Hope,
And do not o’er it weep.
Too many keep their sorrows fresh
By tears too often shed.
Look up! Look out! Your sorrows hide,
And rest in Hope’s own bed.
FAREWELL TO THE DYING YEAR.
Farewell! farewell! thou dying year;
For thee we will not mourn,
But bury thee in grave of past,
In garments worn, and torn.
And yet, thou hast not been unkind,
Thou’st giv’n more smiles than tears;
Hast giv’n us health, e’en though not wealth,
Bright hopes of coming years.
So we should bury thee with pomp,
Take off thy garments torn,
And give to thee more fitting shroud
Than that which thou hast worn.
Though we give tribute to thee new;
We’ll still remember thee.
We know thou didst the best thou couldst
While struggling to be free.
Free from the chains that bound thee down,
And though we shed no tear
At thy demise, we feel that thou
Hast given us some good cheer.
The blare of trumpets at thy death
Shouldst sorrow to us bring,
For thou canst never be recalled.
A dirge, we should then sing,
For opportunities we’ve lost.
Our chance comes not again
To do the things we should have done.
How sad the words, “It might have been.”
THE BOOK OF GIFTS.
An angel came to me one day
With “Book of Gifts” in hand,
And offered any one therein
That I should then demand.
With pride he pointed out to me
Each gift, and urged that I
Would take from them the choicest one.
For in his power did lie
The giving out of life’s rich stores.
This single time had man
Been given the choice of worldly gifts
Since life on earth began.
I had the choice of all life’s gifts,
Fame, honor, untold wealth.
I chose not one he offered me,
But begged for love and health.
UNKIND WORDS.
If we could know the sorrow
That unkind words aye give;
We never would them utter;
For unkind words will live
Long after we’ve forgotten
That we the words once spake,
And that a harsh word spoken
Some weary heart may break.
When once a word has started
Upon its journey long;
It travels on forever.
And mingles with the throng
Of other words of censure;
More bitter grows each day,
And though perhaps forgiven
It sometime love will slay.