Over the Hill

The Rockdale Reporter and Messenger (Rockdale, Tex.)

Vol. 53, No. 8, Ed. 1 Thursday, April 16, 1925

 

 

The Spirit of Christmas

   I question if Christmas can ever be “merry”
Except to the heart of an innocent child.
For when time has taught us the meaning of sorrow
And sobered the spirits that once were so wild,
When all the green graves that lie scattered behind us
Like milestones are marking the length of the way,
And echoes of voices that no more shall greet us
Have saddened the chimes of the bright Christmas Day, -—

  We may not be merry, the long years forbid it,
The years that have brought us such manifold smarts;
But we may be happy, if only we carry
The Spirit of Christmas deep down in our hearts.
Three fold is the Spirit, thus blending together
The Faith of the Shepherds who came to the King,
And, knowing naught else but the angels' glad message,
Had only their faith to His cradle to bring;

The Hope of the Wise Men that rose like the day star

To lighten the centuries' midnight of wrong,

And the Love of the Child in the manger low-lying,

So tender and patient, so sweet and so strong.

Hence I shall not wish you the old “Merry Christmas,”

Since that is of shadowless childhood a part,

But one that is holy and happy and peaceful,

The Spirit of Christmas deep down in your heart.

Written

by

Annie Johnson Flint

(24 December 1866 ~ 08 September 1932)

Published

in

The Independent, Hawarden, Iowa, December 21, 1933, Page 9

The River Note

And I behold once more
My old familiar haunts; here the blue river,
The same blue wonder that my infant eye
Admired, sage doubting whence the traveller came,--
Whence brought his sunny bubbles ere he washed
The fragrant flag-roots in my father's fields,
And where thereafter in the world he went.
Look, here he is, unaltered, save that now
He hath broke his banks and flooded all the vales
With his redundant waves.
Here is the rock where, yet a simple child,
I caught with bended pin my earliest fish,
Much triumphing,--and these the fields
Over whose flowers I chased the butterfly,
A blooming hunter of a fairy fine.
And hark! where overhead the ancient crows
Hold their sour conversation in the sky:--
These are the same, but I am not the same,
But wiser than I was, and wise enough
Not to regret the changes, tho' they cost
Me many a sigh. Oh, call not Nature dumb;
These trees and stones are audible to me,
These idle flowers, that tremble in the wind,
I understand their faery syllables,
And all their sad significance. The wind,
That rustles down the well-known forest road--
It hath a sound more eloquent than speech.
The stream, the trees, the grass, the sighing wind,
All of them utter sounds of 'monishment
And grave parental love.
They are not of our race, they seem to say,
And yet have knowledge of our moral race,
And somewhat of majestic sympathy,
Something of pity for the puny clay,
That holds and boasts the immeasurable mind.
I feel as I were welcome to these trees
After long months of weary wandering,
Acknowledged by their hospitable boughs;
They know me as their son, for side by side,
They were coeval with my ancestors,
Adorned with them my country's primitive times,
And soon may give my dust their funeral shade.


Ralph Waldo Emerson
25 May 1803 - 27 April 1882

Precious Memories

Precious mem'ries, unseen angels
Sent from somewhere to my soul
How they linger, ever near me
And the sacred past unfold.

Precious mem'ries, how they linger
How they ever flood my soul
In the stillness of the midnight
Precious, sacred scenes unfold.


Precious father, loving mother
Fly across the lonely years
And old home scenes of my childhood
In fond memory appear.


In the stillness of the midnight
Echoes from the past I hear
Old-time singing, gladness bringing
From that lovely land somewhere.


I remember mother praying
Father, too, on bended knee
Sun is sinking, shadows falling
But their pray'rs still follow me.


As I travel on life's pathway
Know not what the years may hold
As I ponder, hope grows fonder
Precious mem'ries flood my soul.


J.B.F. Wright (1923)

A Picture of Me Without You

Imagine a world where no music was playing
And think of a church with nobody praying
Have you ever looked up at a sky with no blue?
Then you've seen a picture of me without you



Have you walked in a garden where nothing was growing
Or stood by a river where nothing was flowing
If you've seen a red rose unkissed by the dew
Then you've seen a picture of me without you

Can you picture heaven with no angels singing
Or a quiet Sunday morning with no church bells ringing
If you've watched as the heart of a child breaks in two
Then you've seen a picture of me without you

Norris Wilson / George Richey