The Layers

I have walked through many lives,

some of them my own,

and I am not who I was,

though some principle of being

abides, from which I struggle

not to stray.

When I look behind,

as I am compelled to look

before I can gather strength

to proceed on my journey,

I see the milestones dwindling

toward the horizon

and the slow fires trailing

from the abandoned camp-sites,

over which scavenger angels

wheel on heavy wings.

Oh, I have made myself a tribe

out of my true affections,

and my tribe is scattered!

How shall the heart be reconciled

to its feast of losses?

In a rising wind

the manic dust of my friends,

those who fell along the way,

bitterly stings my face.

Yet I turn, I turn,

exulting somewhat,

with my will intact to go

wherever I need to go,

and every stone on the road

precious to me.

In my darkest night,

when the moon was covered

and I roamed through wreckage,

a nimbus-clouded voice

directed me:

“Live in the layers,

not on the litter.”

Though I lack the art

to decipher it,

no doubt the next chapter

in my book of transformations

is already written.

I am not done with my changes.

BY STANLEY KUNITZ

Guiltless Heart

The man of life upright, whose guiltless heart is free

From all dishonest deeds and thoughts of vanity:

The man whose silent days in harmless joys are spent,

Whom hopes cannot delude, nor fortune discontent;

That man needs neither towers nor armor for defense,

Nor secret vaults to fly from thunder's violence:

He only can behold with unaffrighted eyes

The horrors of the deep and terrors of the skies;

Thus scorning all the care that fate or fortune brings,

He makes the heaven his book, his wisdom heavenly things;

Good thoughts his only friends, his wealth a well-spent age,

The earth his sober inn and quiet pilgrimage.

By Sir Francis Bacon

Drop a Pebble in the Water

Drop a pebble in the water:

Just a splash, and it is gone;

But there's half-a-hundred ripples

Circling on and on and on,

Spreading, spreading from the center,

Flowing on out to the sea.

And there is no way of telling

Where the end is going to be.

Drop a pebble in the water:

In a minute you forget,

But there's little waves a-flowing,

And there's ripples circling yet,

And those little waves a-flowing

To a great big wave have grown;

You've disturbed a mighty river

Just by dropping in a stone.

Drop an unkind word, or careless:

In a minute it is gone;

But there's half-a-hundred ripples

Circling on and on and on.

They keep spreading, spreading, spreading

From the center as they go,

And there is no way to stop them,

Once you've started them to flow.                                          

Drop an unkind word, or careless:

In a minute you forget;

But there's little waves a-flowing,

And there's ripples circling yet,

And perhaps in some sad heart

A mighty wave of tears you've stirred,

And disturbed a life was happy

Ere you dropped that unkind word.

Drop a word of cheer and kindness:

Just a flash and it is gone;

But there's half-a-hundred ripples

Circling on and on and on,

Bearing hope and joy and comfort

On each splashing, dashing wave

Till you wouldn't believe the volume

Of the one kind word you gave.

Drop a word of cheer and kindness:

In a minute you forget;

But there's gladness still a-swelling,

And there's joy circling yet,

And you've rolled a wave of comfort

Whose sweet music can be heard

Over miles and miles of water

Just by dropping one kind word.


By James William Foley

The Chambered Nautilus

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,

Sails the unshadowed main,—

The venturous bark that flings

On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings

In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,

And coral reefs lie bare,

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;

Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

And every chambered cell,

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,

As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,

Before thee lies revealed,—

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;

Still, as the spiral grew,

He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,

Stole with soft step its shining archway through,

Built up its idle door,

Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born

Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!

While on mine ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!


By Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep:

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft starshine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry:

I am not there; I did not die.

by Mary Elizabeth Frye

To The Men of America

You talk of your breed of cattle,
And plan for a higher strain, 
You double the food of the pasture,
You heap up the measure of grain ; 
You draw on the wits of the Nation
To better the barn and the pen;
But what are you doing, my brothers,
To better the breed of men?

You boast of your Morgans and Hereford,
Of the worth of a calf or a colt, 
And scoff at the scrub and the mongrel, 
As worthy a fool or a dolt; 
You mention the points of your roadster 
With many a "wherefore" and "when", 
But, ah, are you counting, my brothers,
The worth of the children of men?

You talk of your roan-colored filly,
Your heifer so shapely and sleek; 
No place shall be filled in your stanchions
By stock that's unworthy or weak. 
But what of the stock of your household ?
Have they wandered beyond your ken? 
Oh, what is revealed in the round-up
That brands the daughters of men?

And what of your boy? Have you measured
His needs for a growing year? 
Does your mark as his sire, in his features,
Mean less than your brand on a steer? 
Thoroughbred—that is your watchword
For stable and pasture and pen; 
But what is your word for the homestead?
Answer, you breeders of men!


by Rose M. Trumball

Opportunity

Master of human destinies am I
Fame, love and fortune on my footsteps wait.
Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate
Deserts and seas remote, and passing by
Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late
I knock unbidden once at every gate;
If sleeping, wake; if feasting, rise before
I turn away. It is the hour of fate.
And they who follow me reach every state
Mortals desire, and conquer every foe
Save death: But those who doubt or hesitate,
Condemned to failure, penury and woe,
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore—
I answer not, and I return no more.

by John James Ingalls