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 conque
Condemned to failure, penury, and woe.
Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate,
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore:
I answer not, and I return no more.
--John J. Ingalls.
A health to Our Dearest.--May their purses always be heavy and their
hearts always light.
An Irishman's Toast.--
Here's to the land of the shamrock so green,
Here's to each lad and his darling colleen,
Here's to the ones we love dearest and most.
And may God save old Ireland--that's an Irishman's toast.
Here's a health to the future,
A sigh for the past.
We can love and remember,
And hope to the last,
And for all the base lies
That the almanacs hold.
While there's love in the heart,
We can never grow old.
Some hae meat and canna' eat,
And some wad eat who want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat,
So let the Lord be thankit.
A little health, a little wealth,
A little house and freedom,
With some few friends for certain ends,
But little cause to need 'em.
If I were a raindrop and you a leaf,
I would burst from the cloud above you,
And lie on your breast in a rapture of rest,
And love you--love you--love you.
If I were a brown bee and you were a rose,
I would fly to you, love, nor miss you;
I would sip and sip from your nectared lip,
And kiss you--kiss you--kiss you.
--Ella Wheeler Wilcox, in Three Women.
Strange--is it not?--that of the myriads who
Before us passed the door of darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the road,
Which to discover, we must travel too?
Away with the flimsy idea that life with a past is attended.
There's now--only now--and no past. There's never a past; it has ended.
Away with the obsolete story and all of its yesterday sorrow!
There's only Today, almost gone, and in front of Today stands Tomorrow.
God made man
Frail as a bubble;
God made Love,
Love made trouble;
God made the vine;
Was it a sin
That man made wine
To drown trouble in?
My character may be my own, but my reputation belongs to any old body
that enjoys gossiping more than telling the truth.
May your joy be as deep as the ocean,
Your trouble as light as its foam.
The man that has no music in himself,
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus.
Let no such man be trusted.
Mark the music.
See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
--Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Jest a-wearyin' for you,
All the time a-feelin' blue;
Wishin' for you, wonderin' when
You'll be comin' home again;
Restless--don't know what to do--
Jest a-wearyin' for you.
Here's to Love, the worker of miracles. He strengthens the weak and
weakens the strong; he turns wise men into fools and fools into wise
men; he feeds the passions and destroys reason, and plays havoc among
young and old!
--Marguerite de Valois.
Good Bye, God Bless You.
I like the Anglo--Saxon speech
With its direct revealings;
It takes a hold, and seems to reach
Way down into our feelings
That Some folks deem it rude, I know,
And therefore they abuse it;
But I have never found it so--
Before all else I choose it.
I don't object that men should air
The Gallic they have paid for,
With Au revoir, Adieu, ma chere,
For that's what French was made for.
But when a crony takes your hand
At parting to address you,
He drops all foreign lingo and
He says, Good--bye, God bless you.