VISION-IDEAS

"If you have an apple and I have an apple and we exchange apples then you and I will still each have one apple. But,if you have an idea and I have an idea; and we exchange these ideas, then each of us will have two ideas". George Bernard Shaw. TWO VISIONS;We may choose to follow one or the other, both, or neither; but, we have gained that freedom of choice.

End Racism Quotes

“Racism is an ism to which everyone in the world today is exposed; for or against, we must take sides. And the history of the future will differ according to the decision which we make.”
-- Ruth Fulton Benedict

There can be no assumption that today’s majority is “right” and the Amish or others like them are “wrong.” A way of life that is odd or even erratic but interferes with no right or interests of others is not to be condemned because it is different.
-- Justice Warren Burger

    At the heart of the problem is the fact that the United States is a racially divided nation where extreme racial inequalities continue to persist.

-- Robert Bullard        

The positive value of anger is not limited to peace activists, but is relevant to all who work for social change. It may be argued that anger is the personal fuel in the social motor that resolves the institutional contradictions that arise in the course of history. As such. it applies to the activists who rid the world of slavery, and who moved the political economic systems from feudalism to capitalism and from capitalism to socialism, and who are fighting today to rid the world of racism and sexism. -- David Adams

Our global community has come a long way in helping to eliminate discrimination, but we still have far to go. -- Robert Alan End Racism Day ... is a perfect opportunity to help our communities celebrate human unity and the diversity of the human race rather than allow our differences to become an excuse for racial separation. -- Robert Alan

End Racism Day, officially known as The International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination, is a perfect opportunity to help our communities celebrate human unity and the diversity of the human race rather than allow our differences to become an excuse for racial separation. It's a chance to recognize prejudice, stereotypes and discrimination in our society, and how each of us may have our own prejudices and may be making people feel excluded without our even realizing it. It's a chance to reaffirm our commitment to eliminate all forms of discrimination and help create communities and societies where all citizens can live in dignity, equality and peace. -- Robert Alan

"Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other, we may even become friends. -- Maya Angelou  Prejudice is a burden that confuses the past, threatens the future and renders the present inaccessible. -- Maya Angelou

...Several million Sarvodaya adherents in Sri Lanka have proved that they can transcend racial, religious, linguistic and ethnic barriers to accept a common state of ideals, principles, and constructive programs to build a new society as collectively envisioned by them. -- Dr. Ari Ariyaratne

"It demands great spiritual resilience not to hate the hater whose foot is on your neck, and an even greater miracle of perception and charity not to teach your child to hate." -- James Baldwin

"I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain."
-- James Baldwin

Everything now, we must assume, is in our hands; we have no right to assume otherwise. If we do not falter in our duty now, we may be able, handful that we are, to end the racial nightmare, and achieve our country, and change the history of the world.
-- James Baldwin

Anti-Semitism has no historical, political and certainly no philosophical origins. Anti-Semitism is a disease. -- Daniel Barenboim I hope that my new status will be an example of Israeli-Palestinian co-existence, I believe that the destinies of the Israeli people and the Palestinian people are inextricably linked. -- Daniel Barenboim

If you want to address racial disparity in the juvenile justice system, everybody has to have a role in it. Everybody has some responsibility. -- James Bell

“Despite the threat of global terror hanging over all of us, there is only one path: to pursue the Millennium Development Goals with fresh resolve –confronting violence, bigotry and hatred with the same determination that we attack the causes from which they spring – conflict, ignorance, poverty and disease. The world we seek, where every child can grow to adulthood in health, peace and dignity – in short, a world fit for children – has remained a dream for more years than we can count. But we at UNICEF are convinced that working together with committed partners, and with an appropriate plan of action and a commitment to resources, we can make that dream a reality for each and every child on earth.” -- Carol Bellamy

At the heart of the problem is the fact that the United States is a racially divided nation where extreme racial inequalities continue to persist. -- Robert Bullard Grass-roots groups challenge the "business-as-usual" environmentalism that is generally practised by the more privileged wildlife-and conservation-oriented groups. The focus of activists of colour and their constituents reflects their life experiences of social, economic, and political disenfranchisement. -- Robert Bullard

If we accept and acquiesce in the face of discrimination, we accept the responsibility ourselves. We should, therefore, protest openly everything ... that smacks of discrimination or slander.  -- Mary McLeod Bethune

Prejudices are the chains forged by ignorance to keep men apart.
--Countess of Blessington

"Preconceived notions are the locks on the door to wisdom."
-- Merry Browne

Sexual, racial, gender violence and other forms of discrimination and violence in a culture cannot be eliminated without changing culture. -- Charlotte Bunch

Man has but little heeded the advice of the wise men. He has been - fatefully, if not willingly - less virtuous, less constant, less rational, less peaceful than he knows how to be, than he is fully capable of being. He has been led astray from the ways of peace and brotherhood by his addiction to concepts and attitudes of narrow nationalism, racial and religious bigotry, greed and lust for power. -- Ralph J. Bunche

The exploitation of women, mass hunger, disregard for freedom of conscience and for freedom of speech, widespread and racial discrimination -- all these evils are far too prevalent to be overlooked.  -- René Samuel Cassin

"…jingoism, racism, fear, religious fundamentalism: these are the ways of appealing to people if you're trying to organize a mass base of support for policies that are really intended to crush them." -- Noam Chomsky

Non-violence can truly flourish when the world is free of poverty, hunger, discrimination, exclusion, intolerance and hatred - when women and men can realize their highest potential and live a secure and fulfilling life. Until then, each and every one of us would have to contribute - collectively and individually - to build peace through non-violence. -- Anwarul Chowdhury

"We hate some persons because we do not know them; and will not know them because we hate them."
-- Charles Caleb Colton

The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it.
~ Joseph Conrad

"A white person listens to my act and he laughs and he thinks, 'Yeah, that's the way I see it too.' Okay. He's white. I'm Negro. And we both see things the same way. That must mean that we are alike..... So I figure I'm doing as much for good race relations as the next guy." -- Bill Cosby

"Right-wing propagandists like Limbaugh and Coulter are essentially entertainers, entertainers who stimulate prejudice, selfishness and meanness the way a comedian works for laughs or a tragedian plays for tears. Theirs is a new art form, exclusive to America and bewilderingly successful. In place of traditional conservative ideology, they offer their audience partisan belligerence and a complete package of mail-order hatreds, designed for the conceptually and ethically impaired." -- Hal Crowther

“We have been basically persuaded that we should not talk about racism.” -- Angela Davis

Racism is a much more clandestine, much more hidden kind of phenomenon, but at the same time it's perhaps far more terrible than it's ever been. -- Angela Davis

Racism is cruel and unjust. It cuts deep and lingers long in individual and community memories. And it is not a thing of the past....We all have a duty to do what we can to turn this around. -- William Deane

"Peace does not fare well where poverty and deprivation reign. It does not flourish where there is ignorance and a lack of education and information. Repression, injustice and exploitation are inimical with peace. Peace is gravely threatened by inter-group fear and envy and by the unleashing of unrealistic expectations. Racial, class and religious intolerance and prejudice are its mortal enemies." -- Frederik W. de Klerk

Judgements prevent us from seeing the good that lies beyond appearances.
-- Dr. Wanye W. Dyer

In This Despairing, Ugly, Unhappy World That MAN has Built

In this despairing, ugly, unhappy world that Man has built for himself; the richest man can buy only more that is despairing, ugly, and unhappy.

Friendship is a Plant of Slow Growth

Friendship is a plant of slow growth and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity before it is entitled to the appellation.--George Washington

A Civilization is Built on What is Required of Men

A civilization is built on what is required of men, not on that which is provided for them.

Antoine de Saint-Exupér

Canada Remembers

REMEMBRANCE

Long ago and far away
across the ocean
wild and wide,
the young men stormed
an alien shore
where many of them died.
Here and now
old men remember
the valor and the gore,
and the boyish faces
of their youth
that are young for ever more

William Bedford

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

-John McCrae

A Short Biography of Dr. John McCrae

In April 1915, one of Dr. John McCrae's closest friends and comrades was killed in the trenches near Ypres, Belgium. He was buried in a humble grave with a simple wooden cross. Wild poppies bloomed between the crosses marking the many graves. The next day, unable to help his friend or any of the others who had died, Dr. McCrae gave them a voice through this poem.

On January 28, 1918, John McCrae succumbed to pneumonia and meningitis. He died not knowing the outcome of the war, but with a full understanding of the cost of it. Before he died, Dr. McCrae had the satisfaction of knowing that his poem had been a success. Soon after its publication, it became the most popular poem on the First World War. It was translated into many languages and used on billboards advertising the sale of first Victory Loan Bonds in Canada in 1917.

In part because of the poem's popularity, the poppy was adopted as the Flower of Remembrance. The symbolic poppy and John McCrae's poems are still linked, and the voices of those who have died in war continue to be heard each Remembrance Day.

---

For the Fallen

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

- Laurence Binyon - September 1914 

---

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air...
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

Officer John G. Magee, Jr. - November, 1941

A Short Biography of John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

John Gillespie Magee, Jr. was born in Shanghai, China 9 June 1922. As he reached high school age, he played rugby in England and spent three years there. Meanwhile, his parents had returned to the United States and his father, Reverend Magee, became a chaplain at Yale University. John Magee Jr. returned to the United States in 1939 to attend Yale.

The Second World War began September 1939. In October, 1940, at age 18, John Magee Jr. went to Canada and enrolled in the RCAF. After his flight training, he went back to England a commissioned pilot officer. In the course of his training in the spitfire, he was assigned to make a high altitude flight "into the stratosphere". On landing, he went to his quarters and there wrote his now famous sonnet on the back of a letter to his mother.

---

Why Wear a Poppy

"Please wear a poppy," the lady said,
And held one forth, but I shook my head.
Then I stopped and watched as she offered them there,
And her face was old and lined with care;

But beneath the scars the years had made
There remained a smile that refused to fade.
A boy came whistling down the street,
Bouncing along on care-free feet.

His smile was full of joy and fun,
"Lady," said he, "may I have one?"
When she'd pinned it on, he turned to say;
"Why do we wear a poppy today?"

The lady smiled in her wistful way
And answered; "This is Remembrance Day.
And the poppy there is a symbol for
The gallant men who died in war.

And because they did, you and I are free -
That's why we wear a poppy, you see.
I had a boy about your size,
With golden hair and big blue eyes.

He loved to play and jump and shout,
Free as a bird, he would race about.
As the years went by, he learned and grew,
And became a man - as you will, too.

He was fine and strong, with a boyish smile,
But he'd seemed with us such a little while
When war broke out and he went away.
I still remember his face that day.

When he smiled at me and said, 'Goodbye,
I'll be back soon, Mum, please don't cry.'
But the war went on and he had to stay,
And all I could do was wait and pray.

His letters told of the awful fight
(I can see it still in my dreams at night),
With the tanks and guns and cruel barbed wire,
And the mines and bullets, the bombs and fire.

Till at last, at last, the war was won -
And that's why we wear a poppy, son."
The small boy turned as if to go,
Then said, "Thanks, lady, I'm glad to know.
That sure did sound like an awful fight
But your son - did he come back all right?"
A tear rolled down each faded cheek;
She shook her head, but didn't speak
I slunk away in a sort of shame,
And if you were me, you'd have done the same:

For our thanks, in giving, if oft delayed,
Though our freedom was bought - and thousands paid!
And so, when we see a poppy worn,
Let us reflect on the burden borne
By those who gave their very all
When asked to answer their country's call
That we at home in peace might live.
Then wear a poppy! Remember - and Give!

Don Crawford

THE FINAL INSPECTION

The soldier stood and faced God,
Which must always come to pass.
He hoped his shoes were shining,
Just as brightly as his brass.

"Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you ?
Have you always turned the other cheek ?
To My Church have you been true?"

The soldier squared his shoulders and said,
"No, Lord, I guess I ain't.
Because those of us who carry guns,
Can't always be a saint.

I've had to work most Sundays,
And at times my talk was tough.
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.

But, I never took a penny,
That wasn't mine to keep...
Though I worked a lot of overtime,
When the bills got just too steep.

And I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear.
And sometimes, God, forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.

I know I don't deserve a place,
Among the people here.
They never wanted me around,
Except to calm their fears.

If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand.
I never expected or had too much,
But if you don't, I'll understand.

There was a silence all around the throne,
Where the saints had often trod.
As the soldier waited quietly,
For the judgment of his God.

"Step forward now, you soldier,
You've borne your burdens well.
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in Hell."

Patriotism is the Conviction That Your Country is Superior

Patriotism is the conviction that your country is superior to all others because you were born in it.

George Bernard Shaw

NATURE has Given to us the Seeds of Knowledge.

Nature has given to us the seeds of knowledge, not knowledge itself.

Lucius Annæus Seneca

More Public Domain Poems of Canadian Poet William Wilfred Campbell

Winter Lakes, The

Out in a world of death far to the northward lying,

Under the sun and the moon, under the dusk and the day;

Under the glimmer of stars and the purple of sunsets dying,

Wan and waste and white, stretch the great lakes away.

Never a bud of spring, never a laugh of summer,

Never a dream of love, never a song of bird;

But only the silence and white, the shores that grow chiller and dumber,

Wherever the ice winds sob, and the griefs of winter are heard.

Crags that are black and wet out of the grey lake looming,

Under the sunset's flush and the pallid, faint glimmer of dawn;

Shadowy, ghost-like shores, where midnight surfs are booming

Thunders of wintry woe over the spaces wan.

Lands that loom like spectres, whited regions of winter,

Wastes of desolate woods, deserts of water and shore;

A world of winter and death, within these regions who enter,

Lost to summer and life, go to return no more.

Moons that glimmer above, waters that lie white under,

Miles and miles of lake far out under the night;

Foaming crests of waves, surfs that shoreward thunder,

Shadowy shapes that flee, haunting the spaces white.

Lonely hidden bays, moon-lit, ice-rimmed, winding,

Fringed by forests and crags, haunted by shadowy shores;

Hushed from the outward strife, where the mighty surf is grinding

Death and hate on the rocks, as sandward and landward it roars.

The Mother

IT was April, blossoming spring,

They buried me, when the birds did sing;

Earth, in clammy wedging earth,

They banked my bed with a black, damp girth.

Under the damp and under the mould,

I kenned my breasts were clammy and cold.

Out from the red beams, slanting and bright,

I kenned my cheeks were sunken and white.

I was a dream, and the world was a dream,

And yet I kenned all things that seem.

I was a dream, and the world was a dream,

But you cannot bury a red sunbeam.

For though in the under-grave's doom-night

I lay all silent and stark and white,

Yet over my head I seemed to know

The murmurous moods of wind and snow,

The snows that wasted, the winds that blew,

The rays that slanted, the clouds that drew

The water-ghosts up from lakes below,

And the little flower-souls in earth that grow.

Under earth, in the grave's stark night,

I felt the stars and the moon's pale light.

I felt the winds of ocean and land

That whispered the blossoms soft and bland.

Though they had buried me dark and low,

My soul with the season's seemed to grow.

From throes of pain they buried me low,

For death had finished a mother's woe.

But under the sod, in the grave's dread doom,

I dreamed of my baby in glimmer and gloom.

I dreamed of my babe, and I kenned that his rest

Was broken in wailings on my dead breast.

I dreamed that a rose-leaf hand did cling;

Oh, you cannot bury a mother in spring!

When the winds are soft and the blossoms are red

She could not sleep in her cold earth-bed.

I dreamed of my babe for a day and a night,

And then I rose in my grave-clothes white.

I rose like a flower from my damp earth-bed

To the world of sorrowing overhead.

Men would have called me a thing of harm,

But dreams of my babe made me rosy and warm.

I felt my breasts swell under my shroud;

No star shone white, no winds were loud;

But I stole me past the graveyard wall,

For the voice of my baby seemed to call;

And I kenned me a voice, though my lips were dumb:

Hush, baby, hush! for mother is come.

I passed the streets to my husband's home;

The chamber stairs in a dream I clomb;

I heard the sound of each sleeper's breath,

Light waves that break on the shores of death.

I listened a space at my chamber door,

Then stole like a moon-ray over its floor.

My babe was asleep on a stranger's arm,

'O baby, my baby, the grave is so warm,

'Though dark and so deep, for mother is there!

O come with me from the pain and care!

'O come with me from the anguish of earth,

Where the bed is banked with a blossoming girth,

'Where the pillow is soft and the rest is long,

And mother will croon you a slumber-song–

'A slumber-song that will charm your eyes

To a sleep that never in earth-song lies!

'The loves of earth your being can spare,

But never the grave, for mother is there.'

I nestled him soft to my throbbing breast,

And stole me back to my long, long rest.

And here I lie with him under the stars,

Dead to earth, its peace and its wars;

Dead to its hates, its hopes, and its harms,

So long as he cradles up soft in my arms.

And heaven may open its shimmering doors,

And saints make music on pearly floors,

And hell may yawn to its infinite sea,

But they never can take my baby from me.

For so much a part of my soul he hath grown

That God doth know of it high on His throne.

And here I lie with him under the flowers

That sun-winds rock through the billowy hours,

With the night-airs that steal from the murmuring sea,

Bringing sweet peace to my baby and me.

The Last Prayer

MASTER of life, the day is done;

My sun of life is sinking low;

I watch the hours slip one by one

And hark the night-wind and the snow.

And must Thou shut the morning out,

And dim the eye that loved to see;

Silence the melody and rout,

And seal the joys of earth for me?

And must Thou banish all the hope,

The large horizon's eagle-swim,

The splendour of the far-off slope

That ran about the world's great rim,

That rose with morning's crimson rays

And grew to noonday's gloried dome,

Melting to even's purple haze

When all the hopes of earth went home?

Yea, Master of this ruined house,

The mortgage closed, outruns the lease;

Long since is hushed the gay carouse,

And now the windowed lights must cease.

The doors all barred, the shutters up,

Dismantled, empty, wall and floor,

And now for one grim eve to sup

With Death, the bailiff, at the door.

Yea, I will take the gloomward road

Where fast the Arctic nights set in,

To reach the bourne of that abode

Which Thou hast kept for all my kin.

And all life's splendid joys forego,

Walled in with night and senseless stone,

If at the last my heart might know

Through all the dark one joy alone.

Yea, Thou mayst quench the latest spark

Of life's weird day's expectancy,

Roll down the thunders of the dark

And close the light of life for me;

Melt all the splendid blue above

And let these magic wonders die,

If Thou wilt only leave me, Love,

And Love's heart-brother, Memory.

Though all the hopes of every race

Crumbled in one red crucible,

And melted, mingled into space,

Yet, Master, Thou wert merciful.

The Children Of The Foam

OUT forever and forever,

Where our tresses glint and shiver

On the icy moonlit air;

Come we from a land of gloaming,

Children lost, forever homing,

Never, never reaching there;

Ride we, ride we, ever faster,

Driven by our demon master,

The wild wind in his despair.

Ride we, ride we, ever home,

Wan, white children of the foam.

In the wild October dawning,

When the heaven's angry awning

Leans to lakeward, bleak and drear;

And along the black, wet ledges,

Under icy, caverned edges,

Breaks the lake in maddened fear;

And the woods in shore are moaning;

Then you hear our weird intoning,

Mad, late children of the year;

Ride we, ride we, ever home,

Lost, white children of the foam.

All grey day, the black sky under,

Where the beaches moan and thunder,

Where the breakers spume and comb,

You may hear our riding, riding,

You may hear our voices chiding,

Under glimmer, under gloam;

Like a far-off infant wailing,

You may hear our hailing, hailing,

For the voices of our home;

Ride we, ride we, ever home,

Haunted children of the foam.

And at midnight, when the glimmer

Of the moon grows dank and dimmer,

Then we lift our gleaming eyes;

Then you see our white arms tossing,

Our wan breasts the moon embossing,

Under gloom of lake and skies;

You may hear our mournful chanting,

And our voices haunting, haunting,

Through the night's mad melodies;

Riding, riding, ever home,

Wild, white children of the foam.

There, forever and forever,

Will no demon-hate dissever

Peace and sleep and rest and dream:

There is neither fear nor fret there

When the tired children get there,

Only dews and pallid beam

Fall in gentle peace and sadness

Over long surcease of madness,

From hushed skies that gleam and gleam,

In the longed-for, sought-for home

Of the children of the foam.

There the streets are hushed and restful,

And of dreams is every breast full,

With the sleep that tired eyes wear;

There the city hath long quiet

From the madness and the riot,

From the failing hearts of care;

Balm of peacefulness ingliding,

Dream we through our riding, riding,

As we homeward, homeward fare;

Riding, riding, ever home,

Wild, white children of the foam.

Under pallid moonlight beaming,

Under stars of midnight gleaming,

And the ebon arch of night;

Round the rosy edge of morning,

You may hear our distant horning,

You may mark our phantom flight;

Riding, riding, ever faster,

Driven by our demon master,

Under darkness, under light;

Ride we, ride we, ever home,

Wild, white children of the foam.

Spring In Canada

SEASON of life's renewal, love's rebirth,

And all hope's young espousals; in your dream,

I feel once more the ancient stirrings of Earth.

Now in your moods benign of sun and wind,

The worn and aged, winter-wrinkled Earth,

Forgetting sorrow, sleep and iced snows,

Turns joyful to the glad sun bland and kind,

And in his kiss forgets her ancient woes.

Men scorn thy name in song in these late days

When life is sordid, crude, material, grim,

And love a laughter unto brutish minds,

Song a weariness or an idle whim,

The scoff of herds of this world's soulless hinds,

Deaf to the melody of your brooks and winds,

Blind to the beauty of your splendid dream.

Because earth's hounds and jackals bay the moon,

Must then poor Philomel forbear to sing,

Or that life's barn fowl croak in dismal tune,

Love's lark in heaven fail to lift her wing.

And even I, who feel thine ancient dreams,

Do hail thee, wondrous Spring,

Love's rare magician of this waking world,

Who turnest to melody all Earth's harshest themes,

And buildest beauty out of each bleak thing

In being, where thy roseate dreams are furled.

In thee, old age once more renews his youth,

And turns him kindling to his memoried past,

Reviving golden moments now no more,

By blossoming wood and wide sun-winnowed shore;

While youth by some supreme, divine intent,

Some spirit beneath all moods that breathe and move,

Builds o'er all earth a luminous, tremulous tent

In which to dream and love.

All elements and spirits stir and wake

From haunts of dream and death.

Loosened the waters from their iced chains

Go roaring by loud ways from fen and lake,

While all the world is filled with voice of rains,

And tender droppings toward the unborn flowers,

And rosy shoots in sunward blossoming bowers.

Loosened, the snows of Winter, cerements

From off the corpse of Autumn, waste and flee;

Loosened the gyves of slumber, plain and stream,

And all the spirits of life who build and dream

Enfranchised, glad and free.

Far out around the world by woods and meres,

Rises, like morn from night, a magic haze,

Filled with dim pearly hints of unborn days,

Of April's smiles and tears.

Far in the misty woodlands, myriad buds,

Shut leaves and petals, peeping one by one,

As in a night, leafy infinitudes,

By some kind inward magic of the sun,

Where yestereve the sad-voiced lonesome wind

Wailed a wild melody of mad Winter's mind,

Now clothed with tremulous glories of the Spring.

Or in low meadow lands some chattering brook

But last eve silent, or in slumbrous tune

Whispering hushed melodies to the wan-faced moon,

Like life slow ebbing; now with all life's dowers,

Goes loudly shouting down the joyous hours.

Wan weeds and clovers, tiny spires of green,

Rising from myriad meadows and far fields,

Drinking within the warm rains sweet and clear;

Put on the infinite glory of the year.

After long months of waiting, months of woe,

Months of withered age and sleep and death,

Months of bleak cerements of iced snow,

After dim shrunken days and long-drawn nights

Of pallid storm and haunted northern lights,

Wakens the song, the bud, the brook, the thrill,

The glory of being and the petalled breath,—

The newer wakening of a magic will,

Of life re-stirring to its infinite deeps,

By wave and shore and hooded mere and hill;—

And I, too, blind and dumb, and filled with fear,

Life-gyved and frozen, like a prisoned thing,

Feel all this glory of the waking year,

And my heart fluttering like a young bird's wing,

Doth tune itself in joyful guise to sing

The splendour and hope of all the splendid year,

The magic dream of Spring !

Spring

There dwells a spirit in the budding year-

As motherhood doth beautify the face-

That even lends these barren glebes a grace,

And fills grey hours with beauty that were drear

And bleak when the loud, storming March was here:

A glamour that the thrilled heart dimly traces

In swelling boughs and soft, wet, windy spaces,

And sunlands where the chattering birds make cheer.

I thread the uplands where the wind's footfalls

Stir leaves in gusty hollows, autumn's urns.

Seaward the river's shining breast expands,

High in the windy pines a lone crow calls,

And far below some patient ploughman turns

His great black furrow over steaming lands.

Snow

Down out of heaven,

Frost-kissed

And wind driven,

Flake upon flake,

Over forest and lake,

Cometh the snow.

Folding the forest,

Folding the farms,

In a mantle of white;

And the river’s great arms,

Kissed by the chill night

From clamor to rest,

Lie all white and shrouded

Upon the world’s breast.

Falling so slowly

Down from above,

So white, hushed, and holy,

Folding the city

Like the great pity

Of God in His love; 20

Sent down out of heaven

On its sorrow and crime,

Blotting them, folding them

Under its rime.

Fluttering, rustling,

Soft as a breath,

The whisper of leaves,

The low pinions of death,

Or the voice of the dawning,

When day has its birth,

Is the music of silence

It makes to the earth.

Thus down out of heaven,

Frost-kissed

And wind driven,

Flake upon flake,

Over forest and lake,

Cometh the snow.

"Friends Are The Family We Choose For Ourselves."

This quote is usually attributed to Edna Buchanan.

The More the Fruits of Knowledge Become Accessible

The more the fruits of knowledge become accessible to men, the more widespread is the decline of religious belief.

Sigmund Freud

A Big Thanks, for Your Continued and Ever Growing Support.

Readers now number more than 3000 of you fine people.  I find that I have an audience in: Australia, Argentina, Belarus, Belgium, Brazil, Bulgaria, Canada, China, Denmark, France, Germany, India, Ireland, Israel, Italy, Latvia, Malaysia, Mexico, Netherlands, Philippines, Russia, Singapore, South Africa, South Korea, South Vietnam, Thailand, United Arab Emirates, United Kingdom, United States of America.

To all my faithful friends and readers--especially those in Australia, Canada, Denmark United Kingdom and the United States of America--A BIG THANKS, for your continued, ever growing support.You are the reason I keep my blogs going. Even if I'm never blessed with the opportunity to meet you, I consider you friends none the less.

To all the new folks who have visited in the last few days; I send out a HEARTY WELCOME AND THANK YOU!

Human History Becomes More and More a Race

Human history becomes more and more a race between education and catastrophe.

Herbert George Wells

Casey's Revenge

Casey's Revenge by Grantland Rice This wonderful poem by Grantland Rice skillfully depicts the action on the field between the legendary Casey and "the pitcher who started all the trouble" just one season before.

"But fame is fleeting as the wind and glory fades away; There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day." - Grantland Rice in Casey's Revenge (1907)

Casey's Revenge by Grantland Rice © Published: The Speaker (06-1907) There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more; There were muttered oaths and curses- every fan in town was sore. "Just think," said one, "how soft it looked with Casey at the bat, And then to think he'd go and spring a bush league trick like that!" All his past fame was forgotten- he was now a hopeless "shine." They called him "Strike-Out Casey," from the mayor down the line; And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh, While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey's eye. He pondered in the days gone by that he had been their king, That when he strolled up to the plate they made the welkin ring; But now his nerve had vanished, for when he heard them hoot He "fanned" or "popped out" daily, like some minor league recruit. He soon began to sulk and loaf, his batting eye went lame; No home runs on the score card now were chalked against his name; The fans without exception gave the manager no peace, For one and all kept clamoring for Casey's quick release. The Mudville squad began to slump, the team was in the air; Their playing went from bad to worse - nobody seemed to care. "Back to the woods with Casey!" was the cry from Rooters' Row. "Get some one who can hit the ball, and let that big dub go!" The lane is long, some one has said, that never turns again, And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men; And Casey smiled; his rugged face no longer wore a frown- The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town. All Mudville had assembled - ten thousand fans had come To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum; And when he stepped into the box, the multitude went wild; He doffed his cap in proud disdain, but Casey only smiled. "Play ball!" the umpire's voice rang out, and then the game began. But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan Who thought that Mudville had a chance, and with the setting sun Their hopes sank low- the rival team was leading "four to one." The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score; But when the first man up hit safe, the crowd began to roar; The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard When the pitcher hit the second and gave "four balls" to the third. Three men on base - nobody out - three runs to tie the game! A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville's hall of fame; But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night, When the fourth one "fouled to catcher" and the fifth "flew out to right." A dismal groan in chorus came; a scowl was on each face When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place; His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed, his teeth were clenched in hate; He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate. But fame is fleeting as the wind and glory fades away; There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day; They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored: "Strike him out!" But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout. The pitcher smiled and cut one loose - across the plate it sped; Another hiss, another groan. "Strike one!" the umpire said. Zip! Like a shot the second curve broke just below the knee. "Strike two!" the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea. No roasting for the umpire now - his was an easy lot; But here the pitcher whirled again- was that a rifle shot? A whack, a crack, and out through the space the leather pellet flew, A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue. Above the fence in center field in rapid whirling flight The sphere sailed on - the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight. Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, ten thousand threw a fit, But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit. O, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun, And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun! And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall, But Mudville hearts are happy now, for Casey hit the ball. Casey's Revenge by Grantland Rice ©

Casey's Table d'Hôte
by Eugene Field (1850-1895)

Oh, them days on Red Hoss Mountain, when the skies wuz fair 'nd blue,
When the money flowed like likker, 'nd the folks wuz brave 'nd true!
When the nights wuz crisp 'nd balmy, 'nd the camp wuz all astir,
With the joints all throwed wide open 'nd no sheriff to demur!
Oh, them times on Red Hoss Mountain in the Rockies fur away,---
There 's no such place nor times like them as I kin find to-day!
What though the camp hez busted? I seem to see it still
A-lyin', like it loved it, on that big 'nd warty hill;
And I feel a sort of yearnin' 'nd a chokin' in my throat
When I think of Red Hoss Mountain 'nd of Casey's tabble dote!

Wal, yes, it's true I struck it rich, but that don't cut a show
When one is old 'nd feeble 'nd it 's nigh his time to go;
The money that he 's got in bonds or carries to invest
Don't figger with a codger who has lived a life out West;
Us old chaps like to set around, away from folks 'nd noise,
'Nd think about the sights we seen and things we done when boys;
The which is why I love to set 'nd think of them old days
When all us Western fellers got the Colorado craze,---
And that is why I love to set around all day 'nd gloat
On thought of Red Hoss Mountain 'nd of Casey's tabble dote.
This Casey wuz an Irishman,---you 'd know it by his name
And by the facial features appertainin' to the same.
He 'd lived in many places 'nd had done a thousand things,
From the noble art of actin' to the work of dealin' kings,
But, somehow, had n't caught on; so, driftin' with the rest,
He drifted for a fortune to the undeveloped West,
And he came to Red Hoss Mountain when the little camp wuz new,
When the money flowed like likker, 'nd the folks wuz brave 'nd true;
And, havin' been a stewart on a Mississippi boat,
He opened up a caffy 'nd he run a tabble dote.
The bar wuz long 'nd rangy, with a mirrer on the shelf,
'Nd a pistol, so that Casey, when required, could help himself;
Down underneath there wuz a row of bottled beer 'nd wine,
'Nd a kag of Burbun whiskey of the run of '59;
Upon the walls wuz pictures of hosses 'nd of girls,---
Not much on dress, perhaps, but strong on records 'nd on curls!
The which had been identified with Casey in the past,---
The hosses 'nd the girls, I mean,---and both wuz mighty fast!
But all these fine attractions wuz of precious little note
By the side of what wuz offered at Casey's tabble dote.
There wuz half-a-dozen tables altogether in the place,
And the tax you had to pay upon your vittles was a case;
The boardin'-houses in the camp protested 't wuz a shame
To patronize a robber, which this Casey wuz the same!
They said a case was robbery to tax for ary meal;
But Casey tended strictly to his biz, 'nd let 'em squeal;
And presently the boardin'-hourses all began to bust,
While Casey kept on sawin' wood 'nd layin' in the dust;
And oncet a trav'lin' editor from Denver City wrote
A piece back to his paper, puffin' Casey's tabble dote.
A tabble dote is different from orderin' aller cart:
In one case you git all there is, in t' other, only part!
And Casey's tabble dote began in French,---as all begin,---
And Casey's ended with the same, which is to say, with "vin";
But in between wuz every kind of reptile, bird, 'nd beast,
The same like you can git in high-toned restauraws down East;
'Nd windin' up wuz cake or pie, with coffee demy tass,
Or, sometimes, floatin' Ireland in a soothin' kind of sass
That left a sort of pleasant ticklin' in a feller's throat,
'Nd made him hanker after more of Casey's tabble dote.
The very recollection of them puddin's 'nd them pies
Brings a yearnin' to my buzzum 'nd the water to my eyes;
'Nd seems like cookin' nowadays ain't what it used to be
In camp on Red Hoss Mountain in that year of '63;
But, maybe, it is better, 'nd, maybe, I'm to blame---
I'd like to be a-livin' in the mountains jest the same---
I'd like to live that life again when skies wuz fair 'nd blue,
When things wuz run wide open 'nd men wuz brave 'nd true;
When brawny arms the flinty ribs of Red Hoss Mountain smote
For wherewithal to pay the price of Casey's tabble dote.

And you, O cherished brother, a-sleepin' 'way out West,
With Red Hoss Mountain huggin' you close to its lovin' breast,---
Oh, do you dream in your last sleep of how we used to do,
Of how we worked our little claims together, me 'nd you?
Why, when I saw you last a smile wuz restin' on your face,
Like you wuz glad to sleep forever in that lonely place;
And so you wuz, 'nd I'd be, too, if I wuz sleepin' so.
But, bein' how a brother's love ain't for the world to know,
Whenever I 've this heartache 'nd this chokin' in my throat,
I lay it all to thinkin' of Casey's tabble dote