1930 :: Memories of Mother

The Rockdale Reporter and Messenger

(Rockdale, Tex.)

Vol. 58, No. 12, Ed. 1

Thursday, May 8, 1930 Page: 7 of 8

 

Prayer for the New Year

For Thy guidance all the way
Through the New Year, Lord, we pray,
And in deep humility
Pray for speedy victory.
Let us hear it sung again:
"Peace on earth; good will to men."
Let this year see nations freed
Once again from war and greed.
On the home front help us keep
Faith with those in plane and jeep.
On the land and on the sea
Fighting for our liberty.
Bring them back, whom we hold dear,
Early in this hopeful year.

This poem / prayer was written by Nancy Richey Ranson . . . who was Poet Laureate of Texas from 1941 'til 1943 . . . it was published in the Dallas Morning News on January 1, 1945 . . .

New Year

The Old Year drifts, a ship that now
Lies battered, worn, from stern to prow;
Beside it rides a trim new craft,
Shining and lovely before and aft.
We'll venture in it, our compass true,
Through unknown seas, limitless, blue,
And whether the weather be stormy or bright,
We'll hold to our course by day and night.
Our every veering will hold surprise,
For straight ahead adventure lies.
And in the good ship, New Year, we
Shall sail with Opportunity.

This poem was written by Nancy Richey Ranson . . . who was Poet Laureate of Texas from 1941 'til 1943 . . . it was published in the Dallas Morning News on January 1, 1948 . . .

Merry Christmas

A little smile, a word of cheer,
A bit of love
from someone near,
A little gift from one held dear,
Best wishes for the coming year...
These make a Merry Christmas!

John Greenleaf Whittier

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

Gone

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

cowboypoetry.com
findagrave.com
tshaonline.org

Farewell, Old Year

Farewell, Old Year, we walk no more together,
I catch the sweetness of thy latest sigh;
And, crowned with yellow brake and withered heather,
I see thee stand beneath this cloudy sky.

Here, in the dim light of a gray December,
We part in smiles, and yet we met in tears,
Watching thy chilly dawn, I well remember
I thought thee saddest born of all the years.


I knew not then what precious gifts were hidden
Under the mists that veiled thy path from sight;
I knew not then that joy would come unbidden
To make thy closing hours divinely bright.


I only saw the dreary clouds unbroken,
I only heard the plash of icy rain;
And in that winter gloom, I found no token
To tell me that the sun would shine again.


O dear Old Year, I wronged a Father's kindness;
I would not trust Him with my load of care,
I stumbled on in weariness and blindness,
And lo! He blessed me with an answered prayer.


Good-bye, kind Year! We walk no more together,
But here in quiet happiness we part;
And, from thy wreath of faded fern and heather,
I take some sprays and wear them on my heart.


by
Sarah Doudney (1841-1926)
found in
1882 The Living Age

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 hundred years ago

. . . Who peopled all the city streets,

A hundred years ago?

Who tilled the church with faces meek

A hundred years ago?

The sneering tale

Of sister frail,

The plot that work'd

A brother's hurt—

Where, O where, are plots and sneers.

The poor man's hopes, the rich man's fears,

That lived so long ago ?

Where are the graves where dead men slept,

A hundred years ago ?

Who when they were living, wept

A hundred years ago ?

By other men that knew not them

Their lands are tilled, their graves are filled

Yet nature then was just as gay,

And bright the sunshine as to-day,

A hundred years ago.

Carved in Stone

Lay the green sod o'er me
carve my name in stone
lay the green sod o'er me
the soldier has come home.

Barry Sadler (1940-1989)
American Singer, Soldier and Songwriter



Human memory
is a marvelous
but fallacious instrument.
The memories
which lie within us
are not carved in stone;
not only
do they tend to become erased
as the years go by,
but often they change,
or even increase
by incorporating extraneous features.

Primo Levi (1919-1987)
Italian Author, Writer and Chemist



Carve not upon a stone
when I am dead,
The praises which
remorseful mourners give;
To women's graves -
a tardy recompense,
But speak them while I live.

Elizabeth Akers Allen



Just because it's carved in stone
does NOT mean it's true!