| I wish there were some wonderful place |
| Called the Land of Beginning Again, |
| Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches, |
| And all our poor, selfish griefs |
| Could be dropped, like a shabby old coat, at the door, |
| And never put on again. |
| |
| I wish we could come on it all unaware, |
| Like the hunter who finds a lost trail; |
| And I wish that the one whom our blindness had done |
| The greatest injustice of all |
| Could be at the gate like the old friend that waits |
| For the comrade he's gladdest to hail. |
| |
| We would find the things we intended to do, |
| But forgot and remembered too late— |
| Little praises unspoken, little promises broken, |
| And all of the thousand and one |
| Little duties neglected that might have perfected |
| The days of one less fortunate. |
| |
| It wouldn't be possible not to be kind. |
| In the Land of Beginning Again; |
| And the ones we misjudged and the ones whom we grudged |
| Their moments of victory here, |
| Would find the grasp of our loving handclasp |
| More than penitent lips could explain. |
| |
| For what had been hardest we'd know had been best, |
| And what had seemed loss would be gain, |
| For there isn't a sting that will not take wing |
| When we've faced it and laughed it away; |
| And I think that the laughter is most what we're after, |
| In the Land of Beginning Again. |
| |
| So I wish that there were some wonderful place |
| Called the Land of Beginning Again, |
| Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches, |
| And all our poor, selfish griefs |
| Could be dropped, like a ragged old coat, at the door, |
| And never put on again. |
| |
| Louisa Fletcher Tarkington. |
| Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey, |
| Fur I've brought you sumpin' great. |
| Apples? No, a derned sight better! |
| Don't you take no int'rest? Wait! |
| Flowers, Joe—I know'd you'd like 'em— |
| Ain't them scrumptious? Ain't them high? |
| Tears, my boy? Wot's them fur, Joey? |
| There—poor little Joe—don't cry! |
| |
| I was skippin' past a winder |
| W'ere a bang-up lady sot, |
| All amongst a lot of bushes— |
| Each one climbin' from a pot; |
| Every bush had flowers on it— |
| Pretty? Mebbe not! Oh, no! |
| Wish you could 'a seen 'em growin', |
| It was such a stunnin' show. |
| |
| Well, I thought of you, poor feller, |
| Lyin' here so sick and weak, |
| Never knowin' any comfort, |
| And I puts on lots o' cheek. |
| "Missus," says I, "if you please, mum, |
| Could I ax you for a rose? |
| For my little brother, missus— |
| Never seed one, I suppose." |
|
| |
| Then I told her all about you— |
| How I bringed you up—poor Joe! |
| (Lackin' women folks to do it) |
| Sich a imp you was, you know— |
| Till you got that awful tumble, |
| Jist as I had broke yer in |
| (Hard work, too), to earn your livin' |
| Blackin' boots for honest tin. |
| |
| How that tumble crippled of you, |
| So's you couldn't hyper much— |
| Joe, it hurted when I seen you |
| Fur the first time with yer crutch. |
| "But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum, |
| 'Pears to weaken every day"; |
| Joe, she up and went to cuttin'— |
| That's the how of this bokay. |
| |
| Say! it seems to me, ole feller, |
| You is quite yourself to-night— |
| Kind o' chirk—it's been a fortnit |
| Sense yer eyes has been so bright. |
| Better? Well, I'm glad to hear it! |
| Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe. |
| Smellin' of 'em's made you happy? |
| Well, I thought it would, you know. |
| |
| Never see the country, did you? |
| Flowers growin' everywhere! |
| Some time when you're better, Joey, |
| Mebbe I kin take you there. |
| Flowers in heaven? 'M—I s'pose so; |
| Dunno much about it, though; |
| Ain't as fly as wot I might be |
| On them topics, little Joe. |
| |
| But I've heerd it hinted somewheres |
| That in heaven's golden gates |
| Things is everlastin' cheerful— |
| B'lieve that's what the Bible states. |
| Likewise, there folks don't git hungry: |
| So good people, w'en they dies, |
| Finds themselves well fixed forever— |
| Joe my boy, wot ails yer eyes? |
| |
| Thought they looked a little sing'ler. |
| Oh, no! Don't you have no fear; |
| Heaven was made fur such as you is— |
| Joe, wot makes you look so queer? |
| Here—wake up! Oh, don't look that way! |
| Joe! My boy! Hold up yer head! |
| Here's yer flowers—you dropped em, Joey. |
| Oh, my God, can Joe be dead? |
| |
| David L. Proudfit (Peleg Arkwright). |
| Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, |
| That of our vices we can frame |
| A ladder, if we will but tread |
| Beneath our feet each deed of shame! |
| |
| All common things, each day's events, |
| That with the hour begin and end, |
| Our pleasures and our discontents, |
| Are rounds by which we may ascend. |
| |
| The low desire, the base design, |
| That makes another's virtues less; |
| The revel of the ruddy wine, |
| And all occasions of excess; |
| |
| The longing for ignoble things; |
| The strife for triumph more than truth; |
| The hardening of the heart, that brings |
| Irreverence for the dreams of youth; |
| |
| All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, |
| That have their root in thoughts of ill; |
| Whatever hinders or impedes |
| The action of the nobler will;— |
| |
| All these must first be trampled down |
| Beneath our feet, if we would gain |
| In the bright fields of fair renown |
| The right of eminent domain. |
| |
| We have not wings, we cannot soar; |
| But we have feet to scale and climb |
| By slow degrees, by more and more, |
| The cloudy summits of our time. |
| |
|
| The mighty pyramids of stone |
| That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, |
| When nearer seen, and better known, |
| Are but gigantic flights of stairs, |
| |
| The distant mountains, that uprear |
| Their solid bastions to the skies, |
| Are crossed by pathways, that appear |
| As we to higher levels rise. |
| |
| The heights by great men reached and kept |
| Were not attained by sudden flight. |
| But they, while their companions slept, |
| Were toiling upward in the night. |
| |
| Standing on what too long we bore |
| With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, |
| We may discern—unseen before— |
| A path to higher destinies. |
| |
| Nor deem the irrevocable Past |
| As wholly wasted, wholly vain, |
| If, rising on its wrecks, at last |
| To something nobler we attain. |
| |
| H.W. Longfellow. |