THE  WINDS OF FATE

Ella Wheeler Wilcox 1850-1919

One ship drives east and another drives west

With the selfsame winds that blow.

Tis the set of the sails

And not the gales

Which tells us the way to go. 

Like the winds of the seas are the ways of fate,

As we voyage along through the life:

Tis the set of a soul

That decides its goal,

And not the calm or the strife. 

-o0o-

ALL THE THINGS YOU ARE

Oscar Hammerstein II 1895-1960

Time and again I've longed for adventure

Something to make my heart beat the faster

What did I long for, I never really knew.

Finding your love, I found my adventure,

Touching your hand makes my heart beat the faster

All that I want in all of this world is you.

You are the promised kiss of springtime

That makes the lonely winter seem long,

You are the breathless hush of evening

That trembles on the brink of a lovely song.

You are the angel glow that lights a star,

The dearest things I know are what you are.

Someday my happy arms will hold you,

And someday I'll know that moment divine

When all the things you are are mine.

-o0o-

THE ROAD GOES EVER ON

J.R.R. Tolkien 1892-1973

The Road goes ever on and on

   Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

   And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

   Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

   And whither then? I cannot say.

-o0o-

DISILLUSIONED

Lewis Carroll 1832-98

I painted her a gushing thing,

With years about a score;

I little thought to find they were

At least a dozen more;

My fancy gave her eyes of blue,

A curly auburn head:

I came to find the blue a green,

The auburn turned to red.

She boxed my ears this morning,

They tingled very much;

I own that I could wish her

A somewhat lighter touch;

And if you ask me how

Her charms might be improved,

I would not have them added to,

But just a few removed!

She has the bear's ethereal grace,

The bland hyena's laugh,

The footstep of the elephant,

The neck of a giraffe;

I love her still, believe me,

Though my heart its passion hides;

She's all my fancy painted her,

But oh! how much besides!

-o0o-

HOPE THE HERMIT (17th Cent)

Anon

Once in a blythe greenwood 

Lived a hermit wise and good

Whom the folks from far and near

For his council sought,

Knowing well that what he taught 

The dreariest of hearts would cheer.

Though his hair was white 

His eye was clear and bright, 

And he thus was ever wont to say:

"Though to care we are born, 

Yet the dullest morn 

Often heralds in the fairest day!" 

"The very longest lane,

Has a turning, it is plain,

E'en the blackest of clouds will fly:

And what can't be cured

Must with patience be endured:

As cheaply can we laugh as cry."

And people gazed,

At words so deep amazed,

While the Sage went on to say:

"Though to care we are born, 

Yet the dullest morn 

Often heralds in the fairest day!" 

Pray, is the hermit dead?

From the forest has he fled?

No, he lives to counsel all

Who an ear will lend

To their wisest, truest friend,

And Hope the Hermit's name they call.

Still he sits, I ween,

'Mid branches ever green,

And cheerly you may hear him say:

"Though to care we are born, 

Yet the dullest morn 

Often heralds in the fairest day!" 

-o0o-

AH SUNFLOWER

William Blake 1757-1827

Ah Sunflower, weary of time, 

  Who countest the steps of the sun; 

Seeking after that sweet golden clime 

  Where the traveller's journey is done; 

Where the Youth pined away with desire, 

  And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow, 

Arise from their graves, and aspire 

  Where my Sunflower wishes to go!

-o0o-

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 

Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: 

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 

In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 

Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees 

A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; 

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, 

And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 

Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; 

And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 

The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, 

The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: 

The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 

And the colours have all passed away from her eyes! 

-o0o-