If by Rudyard Kipling

IF you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, ' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

My "Patch of Blue" by Mary Newland Carson

There's a bit of sky across the street Which I have learned to love, One end of it rests on the housetops high, The other on the Heavens above. It looks most beautiful at times And has been such a comfort too, That when I look through my windowpane I call it my "patch of blue." When I think of God's great universe With it's vast expanse of sky, And of those who can run from sea to sea Without a thought of why. This wonderous joy is given to them By a God so kind and true, I wonder if they are quite so glad As I for my "patch of blue." I call it mine: God's gift to me From September until June, It heals my hurt; it warms my heart; And I'm sure that very soon The lesson that it teaches me will warm me through and through; For it seems as though God's blessed smile shines through my "patch of blue." I've seen it when light fleecy clouds Went scurrying 'cross it's face, And made that tiny bit of sky Look like a bit of lace. I've also seen the storm clouds burst And winds go rushing through, But I always knew that once again I'd see my "patch of blue." I've watched it when the wintry snows Had hidden it from sight, But I have known full well that soon It would once more be bright. When sunset drops it's curtain down She turns to golden hue, That little bit of lovely sky That was my "patch of blue." When I lie upon my bed at night With a heart full of pain and fear, I think of the twinkling stars out there That shine so bright and clear. I think of the radiant, glorious moon shining the whole night through, And I know that the morning sun will bring Once more my "patch of blue." I've looked across that bit of sky As the twilight hour drew near, And thought of one in that "Great Beyond" Who was to me most dear. He was such a very little lad Only ten years old, When he passed the portals through And he's still waiting for me there, Beyond my "patch of blue." There are other dear ones over there whose journey here id over, I shall see them sometime, somewhere, At rest on the shining shore. Dear Lord! Please help my life to be So patient, kind and true, That when at last my life is run I can cross my "patch of blue." And then one day-when I tried to look I found I could not see, In my despair I cries aloud "O God-it cannot be That I must nevermore enjoy This precious, precious view, That I must learn to do without My little "patch of blue." I know not what's in store for me Of sorrow, joy or pain; I do not know when I an see My bit of sky again. But I'm sure God's love and mercy Will lead me safely through And in my very heart of hearts He can put a "patch of blue." Oh! Friend of mine! Are you shut in? Does your life seem hard to bear? Does your heart grow sick with longing For the joys you once could share? "I'll go with you," saith the Master, And his promises are true; So we're sure that in his blessed arms We'll find our "patch of blue."

Season of Memory by Susie Davis

Home by Edgar A. Guest 1881-1951

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home, A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind, An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind. It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be, How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury; It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king, Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped 'round everything. Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it; Within the wall there's to t' be some babies born, and then Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men; And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part With anything they ever used-they're grown into yer heart: The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb- marks on the door. Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit an' sigh An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh; An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come, An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb. Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried, Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified; An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories O' her that was an' is no more-ye can't escape from these. Ye've got t' sing and dance fer years, ye've got t' romp and play, An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day; Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year Afore they 'come a part of ye, suggestin' someone dear Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes' t' run The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun; Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from celler up t' dome: It takes a heap o' living in a house t' make it home.