The World is Still all Right I say; But Tis us Must Ensure it Stays so.

       Be honest, kindly, simple, true;

      Seek good in all, scorn but pretence;

      Whatever sorrow come to you,

      Believe in Life’s Beneficence!

The World’s all right; serene I sit,

And cease to puzzle over it.

There’s much that’s mighty strange, no doubt;

But Nature-the Creator- knows what it’s all about;

And in a million years or so

We’ll know more than to-day we know.

Old Evolution’s under way —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

Could things be other than they are?

All’s in its place, from mote to star.

The thistledown that flits and flies

Could drift no hair-breadth otherwise.

What is, must be; with rhythmic laws

All Nature chimes, Effect and Cause.

The sand-grain and the sun obey —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

Just try to get the Cosmic touch,

The sense that “you” don’t matter much.

A million stars are in the sky;

A million planets plunge and die;

A million million men are sped;

A million million wait ahead.

Each plays his part and has his day —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

Just try to get the Chemic view:

A million million lives made “you”,.

In lives a million you will be

Immortal down Eternity;

Immortal on this earth to range,

With never death, but ever change.

You always were, and will be aye —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

Be glad! And do not blindly grope

For Truth that lies beyond our scope:

A sober plot informeth all

Of Life’s uproarious carnival.

Your day is such a little one,

A gnat that lives from sun to sun;

Yet gnat and you have parts to play —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

And though it’s written from the start,

Just act your best your little part.

Just be as happy as you can,

And serve your kind, and die — a man.

Just live the good that in you lies,

And seek no guerdon of the skies;

Just make your Heaven here, to-day —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

Remember! in Creation’s swing

The Race and not the man’s the thing.

There’s battle, murder, sudden death,

And pestilence, with poisoned breath.

Yet quick forgotten are such woes;

On, on the stream of Being flows.

Truth, Beauty, Love uphold their sway —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

The World’s all right; serene I sit,

And joy that I am part of it;

And put my trust in Nature’s plan,

And try to aid her all I can;

Content to pass, if in my place

I’ve served the uplift of the Race.

Truth! Beauty! Love! O Radiant Day —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

So, Light up your pipe again, old chum, and sit awhile with me;

I've got to watch the bannock bake -- how restful is the air!

You'd little think that we were somewhere north of Sixty-three,

Though where I don't exactly know, and don't precisely care.

The man-size mountains palisade us round on every side;

The river is a-flop with fish, and ripples silver-clear;

The midnight sunshine brims yon cleft -- we think it's the Divide;

We'll get there in a month, maybe, or maybe in a year.

It doesn't matter, does it, pal? We're of that breed of men

With whom the world of wine and cards and women disagree;

Your trouble was a roofless game of poker now and then,

And "raising up my elbow", that's what got away with me.

We're merely "Undesirables", artistic more or less;

My horny hands are Chopin-wise; you quote your Browning well;

And yet we're fooling round for gold in this damned wilderness:

The joke is, if we found it, we would both go straight to hell.

Well, maybe we won't find it -- and at least we've got the "life".

We're both as brown as berries, and could wrestle with a bear:

(That bannock's raising nicely, pal; just jab it with your knife.)

Fine specimens of manhood they would reckon us out there.

It's the tracking and the packing and the poling in the sun;

It's the sleeping in the open, it's the rugged, unfaked food;

It's the snow-shoe and the paddle, and the campfire and the gun,

And when I think of what I was, I know that it is good.

This is my dream of Whitehorse

When fifty years have sped,

As after the Rogers' Banquet

I lay asleep in my bed.

I tottered along the sidewalk

That was made of real cement;

A skyscraper loomed above me,

Where once I remembered a tent.

I heard the roar of a trolley,

And I stumbled out of the way;

I dodged a few automobiles,

And I felt I was getting quite gay.

I thought I'd cross the Yukon,

Over the big steel bridge;

I heard the roar of the stamp mills

Up on the western ridge.

Crushing the quartz from bullion,

And borne on the evening breeze

I sniffed the fumes of the smelter

And the sulphur made me sneeze.

So I thought I'd go to Ear Lake Park

Where nature was fresh and fair;

('Twas donated by J.P.Whitney,

The multi-millionaire.)

Out past the smiling suburbs,

The villas with gardens a flower,

The factories down by the rapids

Run by the water power.

I took a car to the Canyon

And transferred up to the Park

And I sat on a bench by the fountain

Feeling as old as the Ark.

I sighed for the ancient landmarks,

The men that I used to know,

Till I stumbled against a statue,

And spelled out the name - Bob Lowe.

A little chap who saw me

Said with evident pride:

"That is a bust of my grandpa:

It's twenty years since he died.

And if you think I'm fooling,

Ask that boy and you'll see -

He's little Billy Grainger, my playmate,

And that's little Barney McGee."

Then I turned once more to the city,

With its streets like canyons a roar;

And the lights of Taylor & Drury's

Colossal department store:

The eighteen storey steel palace

Where once stood the White Pass Hotel,

The silent rush of its elevators

The clamour of bell upon bell.

And over there at the depot

The hurry, the crush and the din,

The flyer just starting for Dawson,

The bullion express coming in.

The business blocks all a bustle,

The theatres all alight,

The Home of Indigent Sourdoughs

Endowed by Armstrong and White.

And everywhere were strangers,

And I thought in the midst of these

Of Old Bill Clark in his homespun,

And debonair Mr.Breze:

And Fish, and Doc and the Deacon,

And the solo bunch at the club -

Now grown to a stately mansion

That would make the old place look dub.

It was all so real, so lifelike,

I awoke like a man in a fog,

So I shed a few tears in the darkness,

And groped for the hair of the dog.

This was my dream of Whitehorse

When fifty years had sped,

 What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

As I lay asleep here in my bed.

Heaven Is Never Too Far~~Author Unknown.

Heaven Is Never Too Far.

Her hair was up in a ponytail, her favourite dress tied with a bow. Today was Daddy's Day at school, and she couldn't wait to go. But her mommy tried to tell her, that she probably should stay home. Why the kids might not understand, if she went to school alone. But she was not afraid; she knew just what to say. What to tell her classmates of why he wasn't there today. But still her mother worried, for her to face this day alone. And that was why once again, she tried to keep her daughter home. But the little girl went to school eager to tell them all, about a dad she never sees, a dad who never calls. There were daddies along the wall in back, for everyone to meet. Children squirming impatiently, anxious in their seats. One by one the teacher called a student from the class, to introduce their daddy, as seconds slowly passed. At last the teacher called her name, every child turned to stare, each of them was searching, a man who wasn't there. 'Where's her daddy at?' she heard a boy call out. 'She probably doesn't have one,' another student dared to shout. And from somewhere near the back, she heard a daddy say, 'Looks like another deadbeat dad, too busy to waste his day.' The words did not offend her, as she smiled up at her Mom, and looked back at her teacher, who told her to go on. And with hands behind her back, slowly she began to speak. And out from the mouth of a child, came words incredibly unique. 'My Daddy couldn't be here, because he lives so far away. But I know he wishes he could be, since this is such a special day. And though you cannot meet him, I wanted you to know, all about my daddy, and how much he loves me so. He loved to tell me stories, he taught me to ride my bike, and he surprised me with pink roses, and taught me to fly a kite. We used to share fudge sundaes, and ice cream in a cone, and though you cannot see him, I'm not standing here alone. Because my daddy's always with me, even though we are apart, I know because he told me, he'll forever be in my heart. ‘With that, her little hand reached up, and lay across her chest, feeling her own heartbeat, beneath her favourite dress. And from somewhere here in the crowd of dads, her mother stood in tears, proudly watching her daughter, who was wise beyond her years. She stood up for the love of a man not in her life, doing what was best for her, doing what was right. And when she dropped her hand back down, staring straight into the crowd, she finished with a voice so soft, but its message clear and loud. 'I love my daddy very much, he's my shining star, and if he could, he'd be here, but heaven's just too far. You see he is a soldier and died just this past year, when a roadside bomb hit his convoy and taught the world to fear. But sometimes when I close my eyes, it's like he never went away.' And then she closed her eyes, and saw him there that day. And to her mother’s amazement, she witnessed with surprise. A room full of daddies and children, all starting to close their eyes. Who knows what they saw before them, who knows what they felt inside. Perhaps for merely a second, they saw him at her side. 'I know you're with me Daddy,' to the silence she called out. And what happened next made believers, of those once filled with doubt. Not one in that room could explain it, for each of their eyes had been closed. But there on the desk beside her, was a fragrant long-stemmed rose. And a child was blessed, if only for a moment, by the love of her shining star. And given the gift of believing, that heaven is never too far.

~~Author Unknown.

There Will be Peace on This Earth for you and me, Dear Nature I Pray

Oh well, I'm tired and so weary but I must show strong

Till dear Nature comes and calls, calls me away, oh yes

Well the morning's so bright and the lamp is the light

And the night, night is as black as the sea, oh yes

There will be peace in the valley, politics gone to stay

There will be peace in the valley, to my creator, I do pray 

There'll be no sadness, no sorrow, no trouble, trouble can’t you see.

There will be peace in the valley for you and me

Well the bear will be gentle and the wolf will be tame

And the lion shall lay down by the lamb, oh yes

And the terrorist, irrationals of the world should be led by a mere child

That we may be changed, changed from the savages that we are, oh yes

There will be peace in the valley for all someday

There will be peace on this earth for you and me, dear Nature I pray 

There'll be no sadness, no sorrow and no trouble, trouble you will see

When all politiccal issues are gone from the world, of you and me.© Al (Alex-Alexander) D. Girvan. All rights reserved.

The Survival Edmund Blunden (1896-1974)

The Survival

To-day’s house makes to-morrow’s road;

I knew these heaps of stone

When they were walls of grace and might,

The country’s honour, art’s delight

That over fountain’d silence show’d

Fame’s final bastion.

Inheritance has found fresh work,

Disunion union breeds;

Beauty the strong, its difference lost,

Has matter fit for flood and frost.

Here’s the true blood that will not shirk

Life’s new-commanding needs.

With curious costly zeal, O man,

Raise orrery and ode;

How shines your tower, the only one

Of that especial site and stone!

And even the dream’s confusion can

Sustain to-morrow’s road.

--Edmund Blunden

The Child's Grave-Edmund Blunden (1896-1974)

The Child's Grave

I came to the churchyard where pretty Joy lies

On a morning in April, a rare sunny day;

Such bloom rose around, and so many birds' cries

That I sang for delight as I followed the way.

I sang for delight in the ripening of spring,

For dandelions even were suns come to earth;

Not a moment went by but a new lark took wing

To wait on the season with melody's mirth.

Love-making birds were my mates all the road,

And who would wish surer delight for the eye

Than to see pairing goldfinches gleaming abroad

Or yellowhammers sunning on paling and sty?

And stocks in the almswomen's garden were blown,

With rich Easter roses each side of the door;

The lazy white owls in the glade cool and lone

Paid calls on their cousins in the elm's chambered core.

This peace, then, and happiness thronged me around.

Nor could I go burdened with grief, but made merry

Till I came to the gate of that overgrown ground

Where scarce once a year sees the priest come to bury.

Over the mounds stood the nettles in pride,

And, where no fine flowers, there kind weeds dared to wave;

It seemed but as yesterday she lay by my side,

And now my dog ate of the grass on her grave.

He licked my hand wondering to see me muse so,

And wished I would lead on the journey or home,

As though not a moment of spring were to go

In brooding; but I stood, if her spirit might come

And tell me her life, since we left her that day

In the white lilied coffin, and rained down our tears;

But the grave held no answer, though long I should stay;

How strange that this clay should mingle with hers!

So I called my good dog, and went on my way;

Joy's spirit shone then in each flower I went by,

And clear as the noon, in coppice and ley,

Her sweet dawning smile and her violet eye! 

--Edmund Blunden

Autumn-Stephen Vincent Benêt, (1898-1943)

Autumn

Autumn is filling his harvest-bins

With red and yellow grain,

Fire begins and frost begins.

And the floors are cold again.

Summer went when the crop was sold,

"Summer is piled away,

Dry as the faded marigold

In the dry, long-gathered hay.

It is time to walk to the cider-mill

Through air like apple wine

And watch the moon rise over the hill,

Stinging and hard and fine.

It is time to cover your seed-pods deep

And let them wait and be warm,

It is time to sleep the heavy sleep

That does not wake for the storm.

Winter walks from the green streaked West

With a bag of Northern Spies

The skins are red as a robins breast,

The honey chill as the skies.

--Stephen Vincent Benêt,

The Last Word-Arnold Matthew (1822-1888)

The Last Word

Creep into thy narrow bed,

Creep, and let no more be said!

Vain thy onset! all stands fast;

Thou thyself must break at last.

Let the long contention cease!

Geese are swans, and swans are geese.

Let them have it how they will!!

Thou art tired; best be still!

They out-talked thee, hiss’d thee, tore thee.

Better men fared thus before thee;

Fired their ringing shot and pass’d,

Hotly charg’d—and broke at last.

Charge once more, then be dumb!

Let the victors, when they come,

When the forts of folly fall,

Find thy body by the wall

Night in the Old Home-Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

Night in the Old Home

When the wasting embers redden the chimney-breast,

And Life’s bare pathway looms like a desert track to

me,

And from hall and parlour the living have gone to

                their rest,

The perished people who housed them here come back

                to me.

They come and seat them around in their mouldy

                places,

Now and then bending towards me a glance of wist-

                fullness

A strange upbraiding smile upon all their faces,

And in the bearing of each a passive trustfulness.

“Do you uphold me, lingering and languishing here,

A pale late plant of your once strong stock?” I say to

                them;

“A thinker of crooked thoughts upon Life in the sere,

And on That which consigns men to night after show-

                ing the day to them?”

“—O let be the Wherefore! We fevered our years not

                thus:

Take of Life what it grants, without question!” they

                answer me seemingly.

“Enjoy, suffer wait: spread the table here freely like

                us,

And, satisfied, placid, unfretting, watch Time away

                beamingly!”