The Two Most Important Things

The two most 

important things

we  can give our

children are roots

as deep as a 

giant oak's and

wings as strong as

an eagle's.

~ Jerry Apps

America

I have followed your beautiful valleys

Dug out by the hand of God.
I have roamed your level prairies
Where herds of bison trod;
And I have climbed your rugged mountains,
Majestic, stern, and still,
And perched aloft on a lonesome crag
Where the winter's wind blew chill.

I have sat on the edge of the canyon's rim
And heard its waterfalls roar
And seen through the haze of mountain maze
The lonesome eagle soar.
On oceans deep where wild winds sweep
And waves roll loud and high,
I have wondered how God made it all
And the beautiful starlit sky.

O America, I love you
Deep as your mountains are high;
And my love for you will always be
True blue as your summer sky.
You are beautiful and noble,
Immense, rugged, and grand.
America, I love you,
My own, my native land.

~ Homer E. Dixon

It is Now the Moment

It is now the moment when by common consent

we pause to become conscious of our national life

and to rejoice in it, to recall what our country

has done for each of us, and to ask ourselves what

we can do for our country.

~ Oliver Wendell Holmes

None of You Can Ever Be

None of you can ever be

proud enough of being the child

of such a father who has

not his equal in this world ---

so great, so good, so faultless...

Try, therefore, to be like him

in some points, and you will have

acquired a great deal.

~ Queen Victoria

To My Father

It matters not Time has shed
His thawless snow upon your head,
For he maintains, with wondrous art,
Perpetual summer in your heart.

~ William Hamilton Hayne

I Talk, and Talk, and Talk

I talk, and talk, and talk,

and I have not taught people

in fifty years what my

father taught by example

in one week.

~ Mario Cuomo

To Be Honest, To Be Kind

To be honest, to be kind --- to earn a little and to spend

a little less, to make upon the whole a family happier or

his presence, to renounce when that shall be necessary and

not to be embittered, to keep a few friends but these 

without capitulation --- above all, on the same grim

condition to keep friends with himself --- here is a task for

all that a man has of fortitude and delicacy.

~ Robert Louis Stevenson

Father's Story

We put more coal on the big red fire,
And while we wait for dinner to cook,
Our father comes and tells us about
A story that he has read in a book.

And Charles and Will and Dick and I
And all of us but Clarence are there.
And some of us sit on Father's legs,
But one has to sit on the little red chair.

And when we are sitting very still,
He sings us a song or tells a piece;
He sings "Dan Tucker Went to Town,"
Or he tells us about the golden fleece.

He tells us about the golden wool;
And some of it is about a boy
Named Jason, and about a ship;
And some is about a town called Troy.

And while he is telling or singing it through,
I stand by his arm, for that is my place.

~ Elizabeth Madox Roberts

To the Boy

I have no wish, my little lad,
To climb the towering heights of fame.
I am content to be your dad
And share with you each pleasant game.
I am content to hold your hand
And walk along life's path with you
And talk of things we understand --
The birds and trees and skies of blue.

Though some may seek the smile of kings,
For me your laughter's joy enough;
I have no wish to claim the things
Which lure men into pathways rough.
I am happiest when you and I,
Unmindful of life's bitter cares,
Together watch the clouds drift by
Or follow boyhood's thoroughfares.

I crave no more of life than this:
Continuance of such a trust;
Your smile, whate'er the morning is,
Until my clay returns to dust.
If but this comradeship may last
Until I end my earthly task --
Your hand and mine by love held fast --
Fame has no charm for which I'd ask.

I would not trade one day with you
To wear the purple robes of power,
Nor drop your hand from mine to do
Some great deed in a selfish hour.
For you have brought to me joy serene
And made my soul supremely glad.
In life rewarded I have been;
'Twas all worthwhile to be your dad.

~ Edgar A. Guest

When Tillage Begins

When tillage begins, other

arts follow. The farmers,

therefore, are the founders of

human civilization.

~ Daniel Webster

Father

My father's face is brown with sun,
His body tall and limber.
His hands are gentle with beast or child
And strong as hardwood timber.

My father's eyes are the colors of sky,
Clear blue or gray as rain:
They change with the swinging change of days
While he watches the weather vane.

That galleon, golden upon our barn,
Veers with the world's four winds.
My father, his eyes on the vane, knows when
To fill our barley bins,

To stack our wood and pile our mows
With redtop and sweet tossed clover.
He contains our farm that rides the winds,
A keen-eyed, brown-earth lover.

~ Frances Frost

Father's World

My father was one to

stand at night

And look up at the sky

At springtime moons and

blue starlight

And clouds that drifted by.

He seemed  to drink the fragrant air

In natural, keen delight

One with the breeze that

stirred his hair,

He'd murmur, "Some nice night!"

My father was one to

love the heat

Of any summer day;

The clover field to

him was sweet;

He mowed it all away.

With shirt stuck to his

back and wet,

Upon the hay he'd climb

And pause to mop his

face and say,

"Ah, good old summertime."

My father was one who

liked to live,

Who savored simple things.

He reached out, not to

take, but give

And lent us strength for wings

To reach beyond our

home and know

That his heart with us

would always go

And that in the greens of

trees and songs of birds

We could see and hear his

gentle words.

~ Esther Kem Thomas

His Hand

My great-grandfather let me hold his hand

When I walked with him about the land.

I loved the way he used his stick

To poke at rocks and moles;

He showed me earthen runways

And where the snakes had holes.

And all the fields were daisies

And all the skies were blue ---

For I was only seven

And he was seventy-two.

He took me also near the barn

To see the colt at play;

He took me up into the loft

Where the kittens slept in hay,

And he was very silent

While I chattered like a brook.

They tell me he was handsome

With a tall and noble look,

But the kind clasp of his fingers

Was all of him I knew ---

For I was only seven

And he was seventy-two.

~ Mary Newlin Roberts

To My Kittens

Mewing kittens

stay close by

to Mama Cat's

soft lullaby,

to mouse-y toys,

my old white sock,

the gentle ticking

of the clock.

There is a wider

world out there

beyond the rug

and rocking chair ---

a world of fields

and creeks

and trees,

and one day

you'll explore

all these.

For now,

this is

the place to be ---

a playful heap

delighting me.

~ Eileen Spinelli

The Old Porch Swing

I love to sit at twilight time

Out in the old porch swing,

Savoring all the scents of night;

Hearing the crickets sing;

Swaying slowly, back and forth,

Thinking of yesterday;

Listening to laughing children

When they're called home from play.

This world has much to entertain,

But surely there's not one thing

That brings more peace

and comfort than to

Sit in an old porch swing.

~ Gene Sharon Smith

On the Veranda

When summer sun beat down outside
In brassy, breathless glare,
No clouds appeared to mute the blue,
No breezes stirred the air.
Then children tired of jumping rope
Or playing in the sand;
Too hot, it seemed, for riding bikes
When metal burned the hand.
'Twas then our mother called to us
To come up in the shade,
And there for many hours at games
Of school or store we played.
It seemed those days that everything
Grew silent from the heat,
Except the bees that gently buzzed
In nearby fields of wheat.
And as the day was slowing own,
Relaxing its fast pace,
Life on the wide veranda
Was the best of any place.

~ Inez Baker

Summer Days

I stand here before the homestead
That we as youngsters knew;
I see the scenes of yesteryear
Come bobbing into view.
How I loved the days of summer
When changes came about
That left no time for loneliness
Or sorrowing or doubt.

I loved the early morning sun;
Fresh buds with dewdrops in their eyes;
Richly fragrant, balmy breezes
Waltzing o'er the cloudless skies;
Butterflies dancing over flowers;
The buzz of bees upon a rose;
A streamlet bubbling o'er the rocks,
Beneath the green willows in repose.

We children raced through waving fields
Of daisies blooming bright
And went to bed when cricket songs
Broke through the mist of night.
Sweet aromas from the kitchen,
Where Grandma made the jam,
Blend with thoughts of the swimming hole
Where we, for hours, played.

Soap-making day, the kettle hung
Above a fire outdoors;
Each one of us was asked to help
With morn and evening chores.
Each summertime when I return
Recalling days of yore,
I still see our old home and friends,
Just as they were before.

~ Shirley Sallay

Home Relish

There is  a sweet nostalgic charm

About an old country farm

That pulls your heart strings all awry ---
A clean breathtaking sweep of sky;
An old gray barn built on a knoll;
A young mare nuzzling at her foal.

A blue jay scolding
like a shrew;
A row of cedars faintly blue
Against the misty skyline --- where

Small clouds are hanging in midair,
Like blankets on a crazy line,
Above the rows of dark blue pine

There is a woodshed and a pump,
An old tan rooster getting plump
From the rich fare about the yard
Where an old collie dog stands guard
And growls at anyone who dares
To come upon him unaware.

Far from the city's hectic pace,
The people on this country place
Are peaceful as a summer night.
Their windows send out beams of light,
While the old farmhouse stands four-square
To guard the people living there.

~ Edna Jacques

Summertime

Lush, green foliage grasps bare tree limbs;
Vibrant, gold sunflowers pose on tall, thick stems,
Twinkling fireflies gleam in the twilight;
a radiant sunset flaunts beauty so bright.
The season of summer has begun,
Alive with dreams of pleasure and fun.
Fresh smell of cut grass begins growth anew;
A cardinal swoops down dresses in scarlet-red hue.
The humming of crickets serenade with their sound,
While swarms of honeybees zip and hover around.
Fireworks boom on the fourth of July;
A rainbow of color splashes the sky.
The taste of watermelon, luscious and sweet,
A perfect refreshment in smoldering heat.
Fishermen drift in their boats on a lake,
Eager to cast their lines at daybreak.
Sunshine stays longer into the night,
Warming the air with fervent delight.
The season of summer has begun,
Alive with dreams of pleasure and fun.

~ Debra J. Butler

Treasure Hunt

I like to rise at the crack of dawn
And sit quietly for a while
With thoughts set free to wander
Across the years and miles.
I do not know where they will go
Nor what treasures they will find
I only know they often seek
The back roads of my mind.
Sometimes they choose a moss-green path
Where wintergreen and laurel grow;
Sometimes freshly-hoed furrows
Where corn stands, row on row;
Sometimes they find a weathered wall
Where rambling roses cling;

Sometimes they taste sweet water
From a clear, cold mountain spring.
Then they come winging back to me
O'er wooded hills and sleepy farms.
They place the treasures they have found
Into my waiting arms.
I hold them close, then one by one
With the sun's first golden ray,
Through my open window
I watch them fly away.
Then I count my many blessings
As I bow my head to pray,
I thank God for treasured memories,
And the promise of a bright new day.

~ Goldie Counts

Wildflowers

Raising bright faces beneath the trees,

Wafting their scent on the gentle breeze,

Glowing in sunlight, shade, or rain,

Lifting my spirits again and again

Are God's little flowers, planted there

To spread His beauty, to tell of His care,

A light to the eye,

A joy to the heart,

Ever so shy

But ever a part

Of making life glad, relieving my pain.

I touch, oh, so gently, once, then again ---

But leave their sweet message for others to see.

These precious wildflowers are not just for me!

~ Arline Lambert

Sunflower Sunshine

Where violas shyly peek their heads,

Yellow suns tower overhead

With bursts of petals glowing bright

And leaves dappled in summer's light.

The birds planted them for me

And picked the spot so perfectly,

Where hey grow with golden grace

Amid other hues in the garden space,

When they're equal to the weeds,

I'll gather up the blackened seeds

And offer them to those that fed

And brought sunshine to my flowerbed,

~ Stacy Smith

Red Geraniums

Life did not bring me silken gowns,
Nor jewels for my hair,
Nor signs of gabled foreign towns
In distant countries fair;
But I can glimpse, beyond my pane, a green and friendly hill
And red geraniums aflame upon my windowsill.

The brambled cares of everyday,
The tiny humdrum things,
May bind my feet when they would stray;
But still my heart has wings
While red geraniums are bloomed against my window glass
And low above my green -sweet hill the gypsy wind-clouds pass.

And if my dreamings ne'er come true,
The brightest and the best
But leave me lone any journey through,
I'll set my heart at rest
And thank God for home-sweet things, a green and friendly hill
And red geraniums aflame upon my windowsill.

~ Martha Haskell Clarke

Flower Memories

Geraniums remind me
Of a cottage I once knew
With its long, front porch
Where the blazing flowers grew;

Of shining little windowpanes,
With quaint lace curtains showing;
Of summertime and porch swings;
On lines, clean clothes a-blowing;

Of a child with summer dreams;
Of sunshine on a wooden floor.
Geraniums remind me
Of a house with open door.

~ Lucille Crumley

For Where's the State

For where's the state beneath the firmament

That doth excel the bees for government?

~ Guillaume de Salluste Du Bartas

Butterflies...

Butterflies...not quite birds, as they were not

quite flowers, mysterious and fascinating as are all

indeterminate creatures.

~ Elizabeth Goudge

Crowds of Bees are Giddy

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover,

Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet.

Crowds of lark at the matins hang over,

Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet.

~ Jean Ingelow

Books are the Bees

Books are the bees which carry the quickening

pollen from one to another mind.

~ James Russel Lowell

My Banks They are Furnish'd with Bees

My banks they are furnish'd with bees,

Whose murmur invites one to sleep.

~ William Shenstone

Wild Honey

Wild honey smells of freedom.

~ Anna Akhmatova

The Pedigree of Honey

The pedigree of Honey

Does not concern the Bee.

~ Emily Dickinson