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All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography
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My pipe has not for any mood
A word of angry sneering.
I always find it just the same
In care, or joy, or sorrow,
And what it is to-day, I know
It’s sure to be to-morrow.
It helps me through the stress of life,
It balances my losses;
It adds a charm to household joys,
And lightens household crosses.
For through its wreathing, misty veil
Joy has a softer splendor,
And life grows sweetly possible,
And love more truly tender.
Oh! I have many richer joys!
I do not underrate them,
And every man knows what I mean,
I do not need to state them.
But this I say: I’d rather miss
A deal of what’s called pleasure,
Than lose my little comforter,
My little smoky treasure!
The Farmer
The king may rule o’er land and sea,
The lord may live right royally,
The soldier ride in pomp and pride,
The sailor roam o’er ocean wide;
But this or that, whate’er befall,
The farmer he must feed them all.
The writer thinks, the poet sings,
The craftsmen fashion wondrous things,
The doctor heals, the lawyer pleads,
The miner follows the precious leads;
But this or that, whate’er befall,
The farmer he must feed them all.
The merchant he may buy and sell,
The teacher do his duty well;
But men may toil through busy days,
Or men may stroll through pleasant ways;
From king to beggar, whate’er befall,
The farmer he must feed them all.
The farmer’s trade is one of worth;
He’s partner with the sky and earth,
He’s partner with the sun and rain,
And no man loses for his gain;
And men may rise, or men may fall,
But the farmer he must feed them all.
God bless the man who sows the wheat,
Who finds us milk and fruit and meat;
May his purse be heavy, his heart be light,
His cattle and corn and all go right;
God bless the seeds his hands let fall,
For the farmer he must feed us all.
Comrades
There’s a blacksmith works not far away,
He is brawny and strong and tall;
He’s at his forge when the shadows lift,
And he’s there till the shadows fall.
Just when I leave the land of dreams,
I can hear his hammer bang,
As he beats the red hot iron bar,
With a cling, clang, clang; cling, clang.
His smithy is dirty and dark enough,
And he is dirty and glum;
When a man is beating iron bars,
What can he be but dumb?
And there you may find him hard at work
If the weather be hot or cold;
He says, “There’s some satisfaction, Ma’am,
In beating iron to gold.”
Now, I am a mite of womankind,
I am neither tall nor strong;
I can only read, and dream, and think,
And put my thought into song.
But I smile at the mighty giant
Beating his iron so bold;
And think of a slender little pen
Turning my thought into gold.
I sit in my room so bright and warm,
And my tiny tool I lift,
“The battle is not unto the strong,
Nor the race unto the swift.”
But the hammer shall never cease to beat,
And the song shall never fail,
Be busy, O pen! And blacksmith brave,
Beat rivet, and shoe, and nail.
A word of angry sneering.
I always find it just the same
In care, or joy, or sorrow,
And what it is to-day, I know
It’s sure to be to-morrow.
It helps me through the stress of life,
It balances my losses;
It adds a charm to household joys,
And lightens household crosses.
For through its wreathing, misty veil
Joy has a softer splendor,
And life grows sweetly possible,
And love more truly tender.
Oh! I have many richer joys!
I do not underrate them,
And every man knows what I mean,
I do not need to state them.
But this I say: I’d rather miss
A deal of what’s called pleasure,
Than lose my little comforter,
My little smoky treasure!
The Farmer
The king may rule o’er land and sea,
The lord may live right royally,
The soldier ride in pomp and pride,
The sailor roam o’er ocean wide;
But this or that, whate’er befall,
The farmer he must feed them all.
The writer thinks, the poet sings,
The craftsmen fashion wondrous things,
The doctor heals, the lawyer pleads,
The miner follows the precious leads;
But this or that, whate’er befall,
The farmer he must feed them all.
The merchant he may buy and sell,
The teacher do his duty well;
But men may toil through busy days,
Or men may stroll through pleasant ways;
From king to beggar, whate’er befall,
The farmer he must feed them all.
The farmer’s trade is one of worth;
He’s partner with the sky and earth,
He’s partner with the sun and rain,
And no man loses for his gain;
And men may rise, or men may fall,
But the farmer he must feed them all.
God bless the man who sows the wheat,
Who finds us milk and fruit and meat;
May his purse be heavy, his heart be light,
His cattle and corn and all go right;
God bless the seeds his hands let fall,
For the farmer he must feed us all.
Comrades
There’s a blacksmith works not far away,
He is brawny and strong and tall;
He’s at his forge when the shadows lift,
And he’s there till the shadows fall.
Just when I leave the land of dreams,
I can hear his hammer bang,
As he beats the red hot iron bar,
With a cling, clang, clang; cling, clang.
His smithy is dirty and dark enough,
And he is dirty and glum;
When a man is beating iron bars,
What can he be but dumb?
And there you may find him hard at work
If the weather be hot or cold;
He says, “There’s some satisfaction, Ma’am,
In beating iron to gold.”
Now, I am a mite of womankind,
I am neither tall nor strong;
I can only read, and dream, and think,
And put my thought into song.
But I smile at the mighty giant
Beating his iron so bold;
And think of a slender little pen
Turning my thought into gold.
I sit in my room so bright and warm,
And my tiny tool I lift,
“The battle is not unto the strong,
Nor the race unto the swift.”
But the hammer shall never cease to beat,
And the song shall never fail,
Be busy, O pen! And blacksmith brave,
Beat rivet, and shoe, and nail.
Другие электронные книги автора Amelia Barr
Последний отзыв
очень хорошая книга для студентов и учителей