Close Close Previous Poem Next Poem Follow Us on Twitter! Poem of the Day Award Follow Us on Facebook! Follow Us on Twitter! Follow Us on Pinterest! Follow Our Youtube Channel! Follow Our RSS Feed! envelope star quill

Poems About Hard Times

Table of Contents

  1. Hard Times by Eugene J. Hall
  2. Cares by Charles Swain
  3. Hold on a While by Amos Russel Wells
  4. Buttercups and Daisies by Mary Howitt
  5. The Tempest by James T. Fields
  6. Keep A-Pluggin' Away by Laurence Dunbar
  7. Comparison by Laurence Dunbar
  8. Our share of night to bear by Emily Dickinson
  9. How Did You Die? by Edmund Vance Cooke
  10. John Curzon's Watch by Anonymous
  11. The Crocus's Soliloquy by Hannah Flagg Gould
  12. The Heritage by James Russell Lowell
  13. Christ, Who's Gone Before by Eliza Wolcott
  14. Life is Transient by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott
  15. Shadows by Thomas Durfee
  16. E Tenebris by Oscar Wilde
  17. Accomplished Care by Edgar A. Guest
  18. The Stone in the Road by John Edward Everett
  19. It Is Well with My Soul by Horatio Spafford
  20. The Swedish Wife by Henrietta Gould Rowe
  21. The Gain of Loss by John Hobart Egbert, D. D.
  22. Good Timber by Douglas Malloch
  23. See It Through by Edgar A. Guest

  1. Hard Times

    by Eugene J. Hall

    From the noise of the busy workshop, at the close of a winter day,
    Josiah Johnson started, and went his homeward way;
    His face was black and dusty, his hands were cold and bare,
    And through the holes in his garments, he felt the frosty air.

    Weary and worn, he grumbled, at the hardness of his lot;
    He came at last to his dwelling, a low and cheerless cot,
    The broken panes of the windows were filled with wads of straw,
    The kitchen was damp and smoky, the old stove would not draw.
    His wife was pale and sickly, she never had been stout,
    He found her hardly able to labor or be about;
    He looked at her haggard features, he gazed at her faded gown,
    He hung his hat on a rusty nail and, with a sigh sat down.
    Then, looking up at his wife, he said, in a melancholy way:
    "What is the use I'd like to know, o'workin' from day to day?
    Nothin' comes o' my labor, but a pittance mean an' poor,
    Hardly enough to keep the wolf away from our humble door.
    I don't believe there's a man in town that works more hours than me,
    An' yet I'm ragged an' pinched an' poor, an' wretched as I can be.
    I never have been lazy, I never have loafed around,
    A steadier man than I have been, 'aint nowhere to be found;
    But I never seem to prosper, however hard I try,
    An' there's nothin' left for me to do, but to dig along, an' die.

    "I don't know what is a comin', I wouldn't think it strange
    If our country should go to ruin, unless there comes a change.
    It is loaded down with public debts, an' I am much afraid
    That none o' our children's children will live to see 'em paid.
    Our cities an' towns are bonded for more than they can bear,
    An' the people are pinched an' worried with taxes everywhere;
    From the coast o' Californy to the piney woods o' Maine,
    Our debts grow like a torrent in the time of a heavy rain.
    "Where has the money gone to? It isn't hard to tell!
    Go into our city councils an' look a leetle spell;
    Go visit our legislatures wherever they may be,
    An' lookin' under the surface jest see what you can see;
    Regard the pitiful picter an' turn in shame away,
    Nor wonder that our loved country is a goin' to decay.

    "The standard o' public honor, is gittin' mighty low,
    While truth an' patriotism are things o' the long ago.
    Our laws are made by loafers, to sudden greatness grown.
    Whose intimate acquaintance I'd be ashamed to own;
    Who load the people with burdens they cannot well endure,
    Who vote themselves the moneys, exacted from the poor.

    "A man who runs for office, is covered with mud an' slime,
    By half o' the worthless idlers an' loafers o' his time;
    He must spend his money freely, an' give the lion's share
    O' the spoils o' his public office to the half who send him there.
    He must visit the vilest places, an' listen to curses loud,
    And pay for plenty o' liquor to treat a drunken crowd;
    He must stand at the pollin' places when election day comes 'long,
    An' beg an' buy an' dicker for the votes of a vulgar throng.
    An' all o' the money he squanders in bribin' these greedy knaves,
    He steals ag'in from the people when he gits the place he craves.
    No man o' truth an' honor will stoop to things so low,
    If ever he runs for office he don't have any show.
    So fellers are sent to congress, to vote themselves more pay,
    An' the times keep gittin' harder an' harder every day.
    Hard times! hard times! is the common cry in every place I go,
    Bread an' butter are gittin' high an' wages are gittin' low;
    Our business men are a breakin' up, our banks are goin' to smash,
    An' everybody is deep in debt an' greatly in need o' cash.
    A hard, cold winter is comin' on with all of its want an' woe,
    God pity the poor an' the hungry ones, with nowhere on earth to go."

    Then, after thinking a minute, Josiah Johnson's wife
    Put down her pan of potatoes and laid aside her knife,
    And standing up by the table, she said in a cheerful way,
    "The times are a growin' better an' better every day;
    It's only the worthless bottom that's fallen out o' things,
    That's got up this commotion among financial rings.
    'Tis goin' to be a blessin', it'll stop those frauds an' crimes,
    An' reckless speculations that have helped to make hard times;
    An' the day is swiftly comin', when things that are bought an' sold,
    Will be paid for in hard money, in silver an' in gold.
    An' as to the politicians that have plundered the land so long,
    You may be right in some things an' in most may not be wrong,
    The only way for to reach 'em an' humble their guilty souls,
    Is to go with your feller workers an' face 'em at the polls.
    Stand up for men o' honor on every election day,
    An' tend to your daily duties an' labor an' hope an' pray.
    Remember when you are weary, that hard times come no more,
    When the troubles o' life are over, an' we walk on the golden shore."

  2. Cares

    by Charles Swain

    Cares, Cares,—who is without them?
    Troubles are plenty wherever we stray—
    Pass round the glass and think nothing about them,
    The more you make of them the longer they stay.

    Tears, Tears,—who has not met them?
    Sorrow's the dew of life's morning and night;
    Pass round the goblet and try to forget them,
    Speak of the bloom, but ne'er mention the blight.

    Life—life,—who would desire it?
    Who for its pleasures would suffer its pains?
    Pass round the glass, for our spirits require it;
    Hide with life's roses the weight of life's chains.

  3. Hold on a While

    And when your fondest hopes are dead
    And fate has ceased to smile.
    'Tis then it pays to lift your head
    And—just—hold on a-while.

    - Amos R. Wells
    Hold on a While
    by Amos Russel Wells

    When all the sky is very black
    And all the earth is blue,
    And all the fiends are on your track
    And howling after you;

    When courage falls and hope decays
    And fair ambition dies,
    And all your dreamland is ablaze
    Beneath the ebon skies;

    When you would fain renounce the goal,
    Nor plod another mile,
    Oh, straighten up your drooping soul,
    And—just—hold on—a while!

    Hold on a while! the darkest night
    May bring the fairest day.
    Hold on a while! the good, the right,
    Will always find a way.

    Hold on! for is Jehovah dead?
    His love an empty song?
    Hold on! have heaven's armies fled
    Before the hosts of wrong?

    Hold on! for still some strength remains,
    Nor yield you till you must;
    A newer life may flood your veins;
    Born of a larger trust.

    A newer life—hold on for that!
    A lily from the mud!
    The greening peak of Ararat
    Emerging from the flood!

    The clouds are shattered by the sun;
    The earth is all aglow;
    Away the howling devils run,
    And back to hell they go!

    Hold on for that! Do what you can,
    Nor prove a craven elf;
    For heaven never helped a man
    Until he helped himself.

    And when your fondest hopes are dead
    And fate has ceased to smile.
    'Tis then it pays to lift your head
    And—just—hold on a-while.

  4. Buttercups and Daisies

    He who gave them hardships
    And a life of care,
    Gave them likewise hardy strength
    And patient hearts to bear.

    - Mary Howitt
    Buttercups and Daisies
    by Mary Howitt

    Buttercups and daisies,
    Oh, the pretty flowers;
    Coming ere the spring time,
    To tell of sunny hours,
    While the trees are leafless,
    While the fields are bare,
    Buttercups and daisies
    Spring up here and there.

    Ere the snow-drop peepeth,
    Ere the crocus bold,
    Ere the early primrose
    Opes its paly gold,—
    Somewhere on the sunny bank
    Buttercups are bright;
    Somewhere midst the frozen grass
    Peeps the daisy white.

    Little hardy flowers,
    Like to children poor,
    Playing in their sturdy health
    By their mother's door.
    Purple with the north-wind,
    Yet alert and bold;
    Fearing not, and caring not,
    Though they be a-cold!

    What to them is winter!
    What are stormy showers!
    Buttercups and daisies
    Are these human flowers!
    He who gave them hardships
    And a life of care,
    Gave them likewise hardy strength
    And patient hearts to bear.

  5. The Tempest

    by James T. Fields

    We were crowded in the cabin;
    Not a soul would dare to sleep:
    It was midnight on the waters,
    And a storm was on the deep.

    'T is a fearful thing in winter
    To be shattered by the blast,
    And to hear the rattling trumpet
    Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

    So we shuddered there in silence,
    For the stoutest held his breath,
    While the hungry sea was roaring,
    And the breakers threatened death.

    And as thus we sat in darkness,
    Each one busy in his prayers,
    "We are lost!" the captain shouted,
    As he staggered down the stairs.

    But his little daughter whispered,
    As she took his icy hand,
    "Is n't God upon the ocean,
    Just the same as on the land?"

    Then we kissed the little maiden,
    And we spoke in better cheer;
    And we anchored safe in harbor
    When the morn was shining clear.

  6. Keep A-Pluggin' Away

    by Paul Laurence Dunbar

    I've a humble little motto
    That is homely, though it's true, —
    Keep a-pluggin' away.
    It's a thing when I've an object
    That I always try to do, —
    Keep a-pluggin' away.
    When you've rising storms to quell,
    When opposing waters swell,
    It will never fail to tell, —
    Keep a-pluggin' away.

    If the hills are high before
    And the paths are hard to climb,
    Keep a-pluggin' away.
    And remember that successes
    Come to him who bides his time, —
    Keep a-pluggin' away.
    From the greatest to the least,
    None are from the rule released.
    Be thou toiler, poet, priest,
    Keep a-pluggin' away.

    Delve away beneath the surface,
    There is treasure farther down, —
    Keep a-pluggin' away.
    Let the rain come down in torrents,
    Let the threat'ning heavens frown,
    Keep a-pluggin' away.
    When the clouds have rolled away,
    There will come a brighter day
    All your labor to repay, —
    Keep a-pluggin' away.

    There 'll be lots of sneers to swallow.
    There'll be lots of pain to bear, —
    Keep a-pluggin' away.
    If you've got your eye on heaven,
    Some bright day you'll wake up there,
    Keep a-pluggin' away.
    Perseverance still is king;
    Time its sure reward will bring;
    Work and wait unwearying,—
    Keep a-pluggin' away.

  7. Comparison

    by Paul Laurence Dunbar

    The sky of brightest gray seems dark
    To one whose sky was ever white.
    To one who never knew a spark,
    Thro' all his life, of love or light,
    The grayest cloud seems over-bright.

    The robin sounds a beggar's note
    Where one the nightingale has heard,
    But he for whom no silver throat
    Its liquid music ever stirred,
    Deems robin still the sweetest bird.

  8. Our share of night to bear

    by Emily Dickinson

    Our share of night to bear,
    Our share of morning,
    Our blank in bliss to fill,
    Our blank in scorning.

    Here a star, and there a star,
    Some lose their way.
    Here a mist, and there a mist,
    Afterwards — day!

  9. How Did You Die?

    by Edmund Vance Cooke

    Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
    With a resolute heart and cheerful?
    Or hide your face from the light of day
    With a craven soul and fearful?
    Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
    Or a trouble is what you make it,
    And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
    But only how did you take it?

    You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that!
    Come up with a smiling face.
    It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
    But to lie there—that's disgrace.
    The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce
    Be proud of your blackened eye!
    It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;
    It's how did you fight and why?

    And though you be done to the death, what then?
    If you battled the best you could,
    If you played your part in the world of men,
    Why, the Critic will call it good.
    Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
    And whether he's slow or spry,
    It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
    But only, how did you die?

  10. John Curzon's Watch

    Conquer—from things as they are!

    - Amos Russel Wells
    John Curzon's Watch
    by Amos Russel Wells

    Have you heard of John Curzon, of Poland?
    A wonderful artisan, he!
    A watchmaker equalled in no land,
    As you, I am sure, will agree.

    For the Czar of the Russias, to try him,
    Commanded a watch for his fob,
    And bade that his envoy supply him
    With all he might use in the job.

    So the messenger brought some wood chippings,
    Some glass that was smashed in a fall,
    Copper nails and some bits of wire clippings,
    And a cracked china cup; that was all!

    John Curzon, this rubbish receiving,
    Contrived, with no other to aid,—
    it is true, though it seems past believing,—
    A watch that was perfectly made!

    The case—it was formed of the china.
    The works were patched up from the rest.
    it was worthy a rez or rigina;
    And Curzon had won in the test!

    So, my lad, with no money and no land,
    And Fate as severe as the Czar,
    Just think you are Curzon of Poland,
    And conquer—from things as they are!

  11. The Crocus's Soliloquy

    Many, perhaps, from so simple a flower
    This little lesson may borrow—
    Patient to-day, through its gloomiest hour,
    We come out the brighter to-morrow!

    - Hannah Flagg Gould
    The Crocus's Soliloquy
    by Hannah Flagg Gould

    Down in my solitude under the snow,
    Where nothing cheering can reach me;
    Here, without light to see how to grow,
    I'll trust to nature to teach me.

    I will not despair, nor be idle, nor frown,
    Locked in so gloomy a dwelling;
    My leaves shall run up, and my roots shall run down,
    While the bud in my bosom is swelling.

    Soon as the frost will get out of my bed,
    From this cold dungeon to free me,
    I will peer up with my little bright head;
    All will be joyful to see me.

    Then from my heart will young petals diverge,
    As rays of the sun from their focus;
    I from the darkness of earth will emerge
    A happy and beautiful Crocus!

    Gaily arrayed in my yellow and green,
    When to their view I have risen,
    Will they not wonder how one so serene
    Came from so dismal a prison?

    Many, perhaps, from so simple a flower
    This little lesson may borrow—
    Patient to-day, through its gloomiest hour,
    We come out the brighter to-morrow!

    “It is always darkest just before dawn.”

    – Unknown
  12. The Heritage

    O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;
    There is worse weariness than thine
    In merely being rich and great:
    Toil only gives the soul to shine,
    And makes rest fragrant and benign;

    - James Russell Lowell
    The Heritage
    by James Russell Lowell

    The rich man's son inherits lands,
    And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,
    And he inherits soft white hands,
    And tender flesh that fears the cold,
    Nor dares to wear a garment old;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

    The rich man's son inherits cares;
    The bank may break, the factory burn,
    A breath may burst his bubble shares,
    And soft white hands could hardly earn
    A living that would serve his turn;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

    The rich man's son inherits wants,
    His stomach craves for dainty fare;
    With sated heart, he hears the pants
    Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare!
    And wearies in his easy-chair;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

    What doth the poor man's son inherit?
    Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
    A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
    King of two hands, he does his part
    In every useful toil and art;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    A king might wish to hold in fee.

    What doth the poor man's son inherit?
    Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
    A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
    Content that from employment springs,
    A heart that in his labor sings;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    A king might wish to hold in fee.

    What doth the poor man's son inherit?
    A patience learned of being poor,
    Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
    A fellow-feeling that is sure
    To make the outcast bless his door;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    A king might wish to hold in fee.

    O rich man's son! there is a toil
    That with all others level stands:
    Large charity doth never soil,
    But only whiten soft, white hands,—
    This is the best crop from thy lands;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    Worth being rich to hold in fee.

    O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;
    There is worse weariness than thine
    In merely being rich and great:
    Toil only gives the soul to shine,
    And makes rest fragrant and benign;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    Worth being poor to hold in fee.

    Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
    Are equal in the earth at last;
    Both, children of the same dear God,
    Prove title to your heirship vast
    By record of a well-filled past;
    A heritage, it seems to me,
    Well worth a life to hold in fee.

  13. Christ, Who's Gone Before

    by Eliza Wolcott

    When troubles rise,
    And tempests roar,
    Lift up you eyes,
    Christ went before.

    Though friends may part,
    And tears may pour,
    Comfort your heart,
    Christ went befere.

    Though, in the dust.
    They're seen no more,
    Still Him we trust
    Who went before.

    When left alone,
    Unseen, adore
    That righteous One,
    Who went before.

    When death's cold stream
    Shall round us pour,
    Then think on Him,
    Who went before.

    None e'er should faint,
    Who seek that shore,
    Or make complaint,—
    Christ went before.

  14. Life is Transient

    If clouds or storms be seen afar,
    And dreary winter come,
    May we be mindful of the Star
    That guides our passage home.

    - Eliza Wolcott
    Life is Transient
    by Eliza Wolcott

    Such is the state of life, my friend,
    That all is transient here;
    If we have trials to contend,
    Our heaven, our home is near.

    If our dear friends around us fall,
    Or other sorrows come,
    Let's think the warnings are a call,
    To speed our passage home.

    If prosperous days around us smile,
    Then view the hand that gives,
    But let not prosperous days beguile
    Our souls from him that lives.

    If clouds or storms be seen afar,
    And dreary winter come,
    May we be mindful of the Star
    That guides our passage home.

    Our trials teach contrition,
    We bend beneath the storm;
    Then wait with sweet submission,
    The rainbow's lovely form.

    – Eliza Wolcott
    Grief And Hope, Compared To The Rainbow After A Shower
  15. Shadows

    by Thomas Durfee

    How much of earth's beauty is due to its shadows!
    The tree and the cliff and the far-floating cloudlet,
    The uniform light intercepting and crossing,
    Give manifold color and change to the landscape.

    How much, too, our life is in debt to its shadows;
    To griefs that refine us and cares that develope,
    And wants that keep friendship and love from decaying;
    With nothing to cross us we perish of ennui.

  16. E Tenebris

    by Oscar Wilde

    Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand,
    For I am drowning in a stormier sea
    Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:
    The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,
    My heart is as some famine-murdered land
    Whence all good things have perished utterly,
    And well I know my soul in Hell must lie
    If I this night before God’s throne should stand.
    ‘He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,
    Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name
    From morn to noon on Carmel’s smitten height.’
    Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night,
    The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame,
    The wounded hands, the weary human face.

  17. Accomplished Care

    by Edgar A. Guest

    All things grow lovely in a little while,
    The brush of memory paints a canvas fair;
    The dead face through the ages wears a smile,
    And glorious becomes accomplished care.

    There's nothing ugly that can live for long,
    There's nothing constant in the realm of pain;
    Right always comes to take the place of wrong,
    Who suffers much shall find the greater gain.

    Life has a kindly way, despite its tears
    And all the burdens which its children bear;
    It crowns with beauty all the troubled years
    And soothes the hurts and makes their memory fair.

    Be brave when days are bitter with despair,
    Be true when you are made to suffer wrong;
    Life's greatest joy is an accomplished care,
    There's nothing ugly that can live for long.

  18. The Stone in the Road

    by John Edward Everett

    Up hill, with heavy load,
    A farmer's wheels turned round;
    A stone was in the road,
    At which the farmer frowned.

    At once, with snap and crack,
    The shaft gave way and dropped;
    The wagon staggered back,
    But struck the stone and stopped.

    The stone, frowned on at first,
    Now held the wagon fast;
    The stone the farmer cursed,
    Reclaimed his load at last.

    Through life, repeatedly,
    The evils help and bless,
    And hindrance proves to be
    A rock of sure success.

  19. It Is Well With My Soul

    by Horatio Gates Spafford

    When peace like a river attendeth my way,
    When sorrows like sea billows roll;
    Whatever my lot Thou hast taught me to say,
    “It is well, it is well with my soul!”

    It is well with my soul!
    It is well, it is well with my soul!

    Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
    Let this blest assurance control,
    That Christ hath regarded my helpless estate,
    And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

    My sin—oh, the bliss of this glorious thought—
    My sin, not in part, but the whole,
    Is nailed to His Cross, and I bear it no more;
    Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

    For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live;
    If dark hours about me shall roll,
    No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
    Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.

    Faith untried may be true faith, but it is sure to be little faith, and it is likely to remain dwarfish so long as it is without trials...No flowers wear so lovely a blue as those which grow at the foot of the frozen glacier; no stars gleam so brightly as those which glisten in the polar sky; no water tastes so sweet as that which springs amid the desert sand; and no faith is so precious as that which lives and triumphs in adversity.

    – Charles Spurgeon
    Morning & Evening
  20. The Swedish Wife

    by Henrietta Gould Rowe. In the State House at Augusta, Me., is a bunch of cedar shingles made by a Swedish woman the wife of one of the earliest settlers of New Sweden, who, with her husband sick and a family of little ones dependent upon her, made with her own hands these shingles, and carried them eight miles upon her back to the town of Caribou, where she exchanged them for provisions for her family.

    The morning sun shines bright and clear,
    Clear and cold, for winter is near,—
    Winter, the chill and dread:
    And the fire burns bright in the exile's home,
    With fagot of fir from the mountain's dome,
    While the children clamor for bread.

    Against the wall stands the idle wheel,
    Unfinished the thread upon the spindle and reel,
    The empty cards are crost;
    But nigh to the hearthstone sits the wife,
    With cleaver and mallet,—so brave and so blithe,
    She fears not famine or frost.

    Fair and soft are her braided locks,
    And the light in her blue eye merrily mocks
    The shadow of want and fear,
    As deftly, with fingers supple and strong,
    She draws the glittering shave along,
    O'er the slab of cedar near.

    Neatly and close are the shingles laid,
    Bound in a bunch,—then, undismayed,
    The Swedish wife uprose:
    "Be patient, my darlings," she blithely said,
    "I go to the town, and you shall have bread,
    Ere the day has reached its close."

    Eight miles she trudged—'twas a weary way;
    The road was rough, the sky grew gray
    With the snow that sifted down;
    Bent were her shoulders beneath their load,
    But high was her heart, for love was the goad
    That urged her on to the town.

    Ere the sun went down was her promise kept,
    The little ones feasted before they slept;
    While the father, sick in bed,
    Prayed softly, with tears and murmurs low,
    That his household darlings might never know
    A lack of their daily bread.

  21. The Gain of Loss

    by John Hobart Egbart, D. D.

    If wounded hearts were all unknown on earth,
    How could we know the preciousness of balm?
    If storms ne'er swept across life's placid sea,
    What would we know about the peace of calm?

    If bitter sorrows had no place in life.
    The sense of joy would have to be revised,
    Bare roses on a thornless bush would lack
    Chaste settings of the gems most highly prized.

    Were there no rugged mountain steeps to climb,
    We could not vision valleys fresh and green;
    Were there no "Ups and Downs" for us in life,
    We'd never know what "Resting Places" mean.

    Had we no weaknesses to overcome,
    No enemies of righteousness to fight,
    We'd never know the thrill that comes to him
    Who stands or falls in the defense of Right.

    Were there no broken vows, no want or trust,
    No yearning hearts, no lack of constancy,
    Then Faith and Hope could have no mission here,
    Nor Love lay claim to sweet supermacy.

    There always is some recompense, some good in ill.
    Were cross unmixed with gold in human kind,
    The adamantine strands of friendship's "Threefold Cord"
    From "Common Clay" had never been refined.

  22. Good Timber

    by Douglas Malloch

    The tree that never had to fight
    For sun and sky and air and light,
    But stood out in the open plain
    And always got its share of rain,
    Never became a forest king
    But lived and died a scrubby thing.

    The man who never had to toil
    To gain and farm his patch of soil,
    Who never had to win his share
    Of sun and sky and light and air,
    Never became a manly man
    But lived and died as he began.

    Good timber does not grow with ease,
    The stronger wind, the stronger trees,
    The further sky, the greater length,
    The more the storm, the more the strength.
    By sun and cold, by rain and snow,
    In trees and men good timbers grow.

    Where thickest lies the forest growth
    We find the patriarchs of both.
    And they hold counsel with the stars
    Whose broken branches show the scars
    Of many winds and much of strife.
    This is the common law of life.

  23. See It Through

    by Edgar Albert Guest

    When you’re up against a trouble,
    Meet it squarely, face to face;
    Lift your chin and set your shoulders,
    Plant your feet and take a brace.
    When it’s vain to try to dodge it,
    Do the best that you can do;
    You may fail, but you may conquer,
    See it through!

    Black may be the clouds about you
    And your future may seem grim,
    But don’t let your nerve desert you;
    Keep yourself in fighting trim.
    If the worst is bound to happen,
    Spite of all that you can do,
    Running from it will not save you,
    See it through!

    Even hope may seem but futile,
    When with troubles you’re beset,
    But remember you are facing
    Just what other men have met.
    You may fail, but fall still fighting;
    Don’t give up, whate’er you do;
    Eyes front, head high to the finish.
    See it through!

Related Poems

Follow Us On: