This is the young man of whom I write. He is not famous. It may be that when his life at last comes to an end, he will leave no more trace of his sojourn on this earth than a stone, thrown into a river, leaves on the surface of the water. Yet it may be that the way of life he has chosen for himself may have an ever-growing influence over his fellow man so that, long after his death perhaps, it will be realized that there lived in this age a very remarkable creature.
In memory of Nancy Richey Ranson, who died in Dallas, Texas on this date in the year 1972 . . . in her own words . . .
This poem is from a little book of poetry called Texas Evening . . . by Nancy Richey Ranson . . . who was Poet Laureate of Texas from 1941 'til 1943 . . .
The following poem was found in his typewriter on the morning of the 1940 death of the original cowboy poet, Lysius Gough . . .
The Old T-Anchor Ranch is gone, and with it the open range,
No more we'll ride the plains alone, there's been a mighty change.
No more we'll round the circle wide, in early Spring and Fall,
Or stamp T-Anchor on the hide and hear the yearlin's bawl.
No more we'll trail T-Anchor herds to Fort Reno and "Montan,"
or hear the drawling campfire words, nor wear the trail brown-tan.
We've seen cowboys in their prime, and the ranch in all its glory,
Now some have crossed the line and others bald and hoary.
May the T-Anchor Ranch in memory live through all the coming years,
And our deeds strong courage give to future youth and steers.
Reminiscing . . .
Many changes more have been,
in one life's fleeting span,
brought about by sturdy men,
who never failed to duty stand.
Historians, to thee this charge we give,
write for us three cherished words,
let them through future ages live,
cowboys, cutting horse, and herd. . . .
Judge Lysius Gough
29 July 1862 ~ 02 November 1940
Versions of this piece are found quoted on genealogy sites all over the internet. It is most often attributed to Della M. Cummings Wright.
Go rest high on that mountain
Son, you work on earth is done
Go to heaven a shoutin'
Love for the Father and Son
Oh, how we cried the day you left us
We gathered round your grave to grieve
I wish I could see the angels faces
When they hear your sweet voice sing
Go rest high on that mountain
Son, you work on earth is done
Go to heaven a shoutin'
Love for the Father and Son
By Vince Gill
As the afternoons grow shorter, and the early evening drives us home to complete our chores, we are reminded of the shortness of life, and become more pensive, at least in the twilight of the year. We are prompted to make haste and finish our work before the night comes. I leaned over a rail in the twilight on the Walden road, waited for the evening mail to be distributed, when such thoughts visited me. I seemed to recognize the November evening as a familiar thing come round again, and yet I could hardly tell whether I had ever known it or only divined it. The November twilight's just begun! . . . Thoreau's Journal . . . 1st November 1858 . . .
To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. 
The following verse is from a 19th century friendship album that belonged to Berta Mary Henry nee Sharp (1873-1955)
Centennial History of Harrison, Maine: Containing the Centennial Celebration of 1905, and Historical and Biographical Matter :: By Alphonso Moulton, Howard L. Sampson, Granville Fernald :: Published by the authority of the town, 1909 :: Original from Harvard University :: Digitized Aug 21, 2006 :: 727 pages
. . . there should be,
in every life,
a place . . .
where you could come
and visit your past,
and the past of your people,
and know that
whatever happened outside,
here timelessness lived.
Anne Rivers Siddons, Novelist
