41
" Oh when our hope be shakenOh when the trouble be overtakenOh when the storm be a token Oh when yet, we understand the solemn ways of our MakerThen shall our peace within be awakenThen shall our peace within be awakenOh when the peace we want, dwindles!Oh when the life we want, is found in the shackles!Oh when the doors of sleeplessness is opened to us!Oh when yet, we are shown the solemn path of our lives.Then shall our peace within be unshakenThen shall our peace within be unshakenOh when the storms of life; seem to triumph over our livesOh when the relation with our maker; shakes at the appearance of the lightOh when life, shows its hazardous side.Oh when yet, we understand the solemn ways of God. Then shall our peace within be unshakenThen shall our peace within be unshakenOh when we rest in the belly of troublesOh when our skill seems not workingOh when the test seems not endingOh when yet, we understand the solemn path of GodThen shall our peace within be unshakenThen shall our peace within be unshakenOh when we are entangled; in the worsened economic lifeOh when the hurdles of life; escalates to the apex in mightOh when our strength fades awayOh when yet, we are shown the solemn path of our livesThen shall our peace within be unshakenThen shall our peace within be unshakenOh when our achievements, be at the apex Oh when our joy, be made perfectOh when we sleep soundly in fervent!Oh when yet, we understand the solemn paths of GodThen shall our peace within be unshakenThen shall our peace within be unshaken "
42
" Carpe Diem
By Edna Stewart
Shakespeare, Robert Frost, Walt Whitman did it, why can't I?
The words of Horace, his laconic phrase. Does it amuse me or frighten me?
Does it rub salt in an old wound? Horace, Shakespeare, Robert Frost and Walt Whitman my loves,
we've all had a taste of the devils carpe of forbidden food.
My belly is full of mourning over life mishaps of should have's, missed pleasure, and why was I ever born?
The leaf falls from the trees from which it was born in and cascade down like a feather that tumbles and toil in the wind.
One gush! It blows away. It’s trampled, raked, burned and finally turns to ashes which fades away like the leaves of grass.
Did Horace get it right? Trust in nothing?
The shortness of Life is seventy years, Robert Frost and Whitman bared more, but Shakespeare did not.
Butterflies of Curiosities allures me more.
Man is mortal, the fruit is ripe. Seize more my darling!
Enjoy the day. "
― Edna Stewart , The Call of the Christmas Pecan Tree
47
" What is dying?I am standing on the seashore.A ship sails to the morning breeze and starts for the ocean.She is an object and I stand watching herTill at last she fades from the horizon,And someone at my side says, “She is gone!” Gone where?Gone from my sight, that is all;She is just as large in the masts, hull and spars as she was when I saw her,And just as able to bear her load of living freight to its destination.The diminished size and total loss of sight is in me, not in her;And just at the moment when someone at my side says, “She is gone”,There are others who are watching her coming,And other voices take up a glad shout,“There she comes” – and that is dying. "
53
" We realize, though, because we must, that remembrance is finite. It crosses only so many generations before it fades to indistinction. One man remembers his father and perhaps his grandfather and the details of the lives that were lived. But it's harder to see further back in time. I know the name of my great-grandfather, but our living time did not intersect. We did not walk the earth at the same time. Thus, to me he's a photograph; a story I heard my grandfather tell. He's not a life I remember. And my children may not know him at all, unless by chance they can find him in a book. In time, he will be forgotten entirely, just as we all will with enough revolutions of the earth around the slowly expiring sun. Each fragile heart now beating will one day stop ... We are little more than one tree's growth of leaves in hillside forest. We will enjoy our brief moment in the sun, only to fall away with all the other to make way for the next bright young generation. "
― Phillip Lewis , The Barrowfields
57
" This kindness, this stupid kindness, is what is most truly human in a human being. It is what sets man apart, the highest achievement of his soul. No, it says, life is not evil!
This kindness is both senseless and wordless. It is instinctive, blind. When Christianity clothed it in the teachings of the Church Fathers, it began to fade; its kernel became a husk. It remains potent only while it is dumb and senseless, hidden in the living darkness of the human heart – before it becomes a tool or commodity in the hands of preachers, before its crude ore is forged into the gilt coins of holiness. It is as simple as life itself. Even the teachings of Jesus deprived it of its strength.
But, as I lost faith in good, I began to lose faith even in kindness. It seemed as beautiful and powerless as dew. What use was it if it was not contagious?
How can one make a power of it without losing it, without turning it into a husk as the Church did? Kindness is powerful only while it is powerless. If Man tries to give it power, it dims, fades away, loses itself, vanishes. "
― Vasily Grossman , Life and Fate