A post about little things, nothing, and everything. Not SEO optimized, so Search Engines cannot find it. You get to see it because I chose to share it with you and you happen to be in my circle. Read along.
Oh and obligatory announcement – I got my Pfizer COVID 19 Vaccine this afternoon. And so far I feel fine. Also if you are busy, find time and get vaccinated. If you do not trust the vaccine, read some science from credible sources (not Fox News and Social Media) and Get Vaccinated.
Ok now read along. These are some excerpts from my new favorite poetry book called Jingles. It was written by Frank J Medina, and first published in 1919. Everything still holds true, that’s what I thought at least. But I will let you decide.
Gather ’round me closely and a story I’ll relate Of life in different stages—its sad and happy state— When as a youth, before the storm and all the world is fair, And then a man of middle-age, with nothing left but care. Life’s story has a happy hue and the world seems bright, Yes, life is full of sunshine, we can not see the night, And we with hearts all filled with plans, look forward and we see With eyes of hope, our future fights end in a victory. But when the days of youth are o’er, storms gather thick and fast, The happiness of childhood has vanished with the past. Instead of all our victories and conquest to attain, Our fight is principally in life, our daily bread to gain. Our plans have all been shattered; castles gone to decay; Our childhood dreams of happiness have long since passed away. No sunshine now we see in life, all is grief and despair, Our joyful dreams of former years turned to trials, toil and care. In old age we look back to these things we labored after. Sometimes it causes sorrow; sometimes it causes laughter. Some of our best days were ill spent in joy and dissipation, Or mayhap some mistake in life, such as missing a vocation. Such things will hover ’round our minds when we have all turned gray, But what’s the use of pining for things long passed away, For if we had the means wherewith, our lives we could relive; We’d do the same and to these same hopes we would a nursing give. Life has its joys and sorrows; its sunshine and its rain; Its griefs and disappointments; its happiness and pain. We struggle hard for happiness, think we have a boundless store, When the monster disappointment comes knocking at the door.
The Ticking of the Clock
The Ticking of the Clock Far from friends and comrades, Far away from home, None to cheer my loneliness As I sit here alone. For me there is no cheerful voice, There’s no familiar knock; All that breaks the silence Is the ticking of the clock. Ah! what memory comes to me With that clock ticking there; It has ticked away our joy; It will tick away our care. First, when a little infant, With instinct shrewd and quick, I said, “Papa, let me listen To the tick, tick, tick.” As a boy, quite full of mischief, By teacher called a fool, I’d watch the old clock on the wall To let me out of school. Later, as a youth when courting, The maid who had my heart, When I’d hear the clock strike ten, It meant, “Young man, depart.” Next, as a broker, I have watched The rise and fall of stock; A fortune lost, another gained, To the ticking of the clock. Now that I am old and gray, With Heaven alone to gain; Life’s voyage nearly ended, That old clock ticks the same. It ticked through all my sorrow, It ticked through all my strife, It ticked through my prosperity, It ticks away my life. It ticked when I was healthy, It ticked when I was sick; All through life I’ve always heard That tick, tick, tick. There it stands a-ticking, Ticking night and day; Ticking us along through life— Ticking life away. These memories now hang o’er me, As I sit here by myself And listen to the ticking Of the clock upon the shelf.
Little Life Little infants, Little toys; Little playmates, Little boys. Little falsehood, Little truth; Little studious, Little youth. Little dancing, Little life; Little courting, Little wife. Little happy, Little gay; Little sorrow, Little gray. Little aged, Little bent, Little tottering, Life near spent. Little aching, Little sore; Little sickness, Life is o’er.
Adapted from Jingles, by Frank J Medina Published in 1919
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