My Commonplace Book

  Flaxman BY  MARGARET FULLER We deemed the secret lost, the spirit gone, Which spake in Greek simplicity of thought, And in the forms of gods and heroes wrought Eternal beauty from the sculptured stone,— A higher charm than modern culture won With all the wealth of metaphysic lore, Gifted to analyze, dissect, explore. A many-colored light flows from one sun; Art, ’neath its beams, a motley thread has spun; The prism modifies the perfect day; But thou hast known such mediums to shun, And cast once more on life a pure, white ray. Absorbed in the creations of thy mind, Forgetting daily self, my truest self I find.

  For My People  by Margaret Walker For my people everywhere singing their slave songs      repeatedly: their dirges and their ditties and their blues      and jubilees, praying their prayers nightly to an      unknown god, bending their knees humbly to an      unseen power; For my people lending their strength to the years, to the     gone years and the now years and the maybe years,     washing ironing cooking scrubbing sewing mending     hoeing plowing digging planting pruning patching     dragging along never gaining never reaping never     knowing and never understanding; For my playmates in the clay and dust and sand of Alabama     backyards playing baptizing and preaching and doctor     and jail and soldier and school and mama and cooking     and playhouse and concert and store and h...

  How Clear, How Lovely Bright by A. E. Housman How clear, how lovely bright, How beautiful to sight Those beams of morning play; How heaven laughs out with glee Where, like a bird set free, Up from the eastern sea Soars the delightful day. To-day I shall be strong, No more shall yield to wrong, Shall squander life no more; Days lost, I know not how, I shall retrieve them now; Now I shall keep the vow I never kept before. Ensanguining the skies How heavily it dies Into the west away; Past touch and sight and sound Not further to be found, How hopeless under ground Falls the remorseful day.

  Opportunity by John James Ingalls Master of human destinies am I; Fame, love and fortune on my footsteps wait. Cities and fields I walk. I penetrate Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late, I knock unbidden once at every gate. If sleeping, wake; if feasting, rise, before I turn away. It is the hour of fate, And they who follow me reach every state Mortals desire, and conquer every foe Save death; but those who hesitate Condemned to failure, penury and woe, Seek me in vain, and uselessly implore. I answer not, and I return no more.

  If I Could Tell You by W.H. Auden Time will say nothing but I told you so, Time only knows the price we have to pay; If I could tell you I would let you know. If we should weep when clowns put on their show, If we should stumble when musicians play, Time will say nothing but I told you so. There are no fortunes to be told, although, Because I love you more than I can say, If I could tell you I would let you know. The winds must come from somewhere when they blow, There must be reasons why the leaves decay; Time will say nothing but I told you so. Perhaps the roses really want to grow, The vision seriously intends to stay; If I could tell you I would let you know. Suppose all the lions get up and go, And all the brooks and soldiers run away; Will Time say nothing but I told you so? If I could tell you I would let you know.

  A Psalm of Life by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.) 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 to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. 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 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, departing, leave behind us Footprin...