As I mentioned earlier Mary took me to Taney Church summer fair, It was brill I love a bargain, rummaging around mountains of books In the tent I was in my own personal little heaven. Life can take what it wants from me, all I ask is please dont take my books. Books transcend time, and finding one that was written a century earler connects you with the past. This book had belonged to P. Bingham dated 1916 it was a wonderful book of poems written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow who was born in Portland, Maine, North America in 1807.
I feel my hand was guided to this special book, and the poem within, and I feel I have to share his poiynant wonderful and uplifting words of poetry with you entitled 'The Psalm of Life'
Tell me not, in mournful numbers'
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
and things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
and the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tommorow
Find us further than today
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts,
though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead bury Past bury its dead!
Act - act in the living present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, in departing leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;-
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solem main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing shall take heart again.
Let us then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still persuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.