In Summer

Source: The New Indian Express

Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.

And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air's soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.

I envy the farmer's boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shining green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.

He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another's ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.

He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o'erfull heart, without aim or art;
'T is a song of the merriest.

O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.

Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,—
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.

So, long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.

~  Paul Laurence Dunbar

In Summer

Source: The New Indian Express

Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.

And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air's soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.

I envy the farmer's boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shining green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.

He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another's ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.

He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o'erfull heart, without aim or art;
'T is a song of the merriest.

O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.

Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,—
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.

So, long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.

~  Paul Laurence Dunbar

Common Things

Photo credit: darnok from morguefile.com

I like to hear of wealth and gold, 

And El Doradoes in their glory;

I like for silks and satins bold

To sweep and rustle through a story.

The nightingale is sweet of song;

The rare exotic smells divinely;

And knightly men who stride along,

The role heroic carry finely.

But then, upon the other hand,

Our minds have got a way of running

To things that aren't quite so grand,

Which, maybe, we are best in shunning.

For some of us still like to see

The poor man in his dwelling narrow,

The hollyhock, the bumblebee,

The meadow lark, and chirping sparrow.

We like the man who soars and sings

With high and lofty inspiration;

But he who sings of common things

Shall always share our admiration.

~ Paul Laurence Dunbar

______________________________________

The best things in life are nearest: Breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of right just before you. Then do not grasp at the stars, but do life's plain, common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things in life. 

~ Robert Louis Stevenson

Common Things

Photo credit: darnok from morguefile.com

I like to hear of wealth and gold, 

And El Doradoes in their glory;

I like for silks and satins bold

To sweep and rustle through a story.

The nightingale is sweet of song;

The rare exotic smells divinely;

And knightly men who stride along,

The role heroic carry finely.

But then, upon the other hand,

Our minds have got a way of running

To things that aren't quite so grand,

Which, maybe, we are best in shunning.

For some of us still like to see

The poor man in his dwelling narrow,

The hollyhock, the bumblebee,

The meadow lark, and chirping sparrow.

We like the man who soars and sings

With high and lofty inspiration;

But he who sings of common things

Shall always share our admiration.

~ Paul Laurence Dunbar

______________________________________

The best things in life are nearest: Breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of right just before you. Then do not grasp at the stars, but do life's plain, common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things in life. 

~ Robert Louis Stevenson

Not they who soar

Photo credit: anitapatterson from morguefile.com

Not they who soar, but they who plod 

Their rugged way, unhelped, to God

Are heroes; they who higher fare,

And, flying, fan the upper air,

Miss all the toil that hugs the sod.

'Tis they whose backs have felt the rod,

Whose feet have pressed the path unshod,

May smile upon defeated care,

Not they who soar.

High up there are no thorns to prod,

Nor boulders lurking 'neath the clod

To turn the keenness of the share,

For flight is ever free and rare;

But heroes they the soil who've trod,

Not they who soar!

~ Paul Laurence Dunbar

__________________________________

Men are admitted into Heaven not because they have curbed and governed their passions or have no passions, but because they have cultivated their understandings. The treasures of Heaven are not negations of passion, but realities of intellect, from which all the passions emanate uncurbed in their eternal glory. The fool shall not enter into Heaven let him be ever so holy.

~ William Blake

Not they who soar

Photo credit: anitapatterson from morguefile.com

Not they who soar, but they who plod 

Their rugged way, unhelped, to God

Are heroes; they who higher fare,

And, flying, fan the upper air,

Miss all the toil that hugs the sod.

'Tis they whose backs have felt the rod,

Whose feet have pressed the path unshod,

May smile upon defeated care,

Not they who soar.

High up there are no thorns to prod,

Nor boulders lurking 'neath the clod

To turn the keenness of the share,

For flight is ever free and rare;

But heroes they the soil who've trod,

Not they who soar!

~ Paul Laurence Dunbar

__________________________________

Men are admitted into Heaven not because they have curbed and governed their passions or have no passions, but because they have cultivated their understandings. The treasures of Heaven are not negations of passion, but realities of intellect, from which all the passions emanate uncurbed in their eternal glory. The fool shall not enter into Heaven let him be ever so holy.

~ William Blake