The tree of life has been shaken,
And but few of us linger now,
Like the prophets two or three berries
In the top of the uppermost bough.
The tree of life has been shaken,
And but few of us linger now,
Like the prophets two or three berries
In the top of the uppermost bough.
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.
There are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.
I venerate old age and I love not the man who can look without emotion upon the sunset of life, when the dusk of evening begins to gather over the watery eye, and the shadows of twilight grow broader and deeper upon the understanding.
Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.
Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.
The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright. The house is full of life and light.
On the road of life one mile-stone more!
Life and death, and love and hate,
Homes made happy or desolate,
Hearts made sad or gay!
In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle Be a hero in the strife.
His mother Mary of Nazareth
Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
Were mingled together in her breast.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.
There is no death What seems so is transition This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death.
Life is real Life is earnest And death is not its goal. Dust thou art, to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul.
In the book of life one leaf turned o'er!
Life is real life is earnest And the grave is not its goal Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
The Battle of our Life is briet
The alarm,--the struggle,--the relief,
Then sleep we side by side.
The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone.
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me
Seemed greater than I could bear.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories