A Hundred Years From Now

2007-01-18T11:34:00.000-08:00

The surging sea of human life
Forever onward rolls,
And bears to the eternal shore
Its daily freight of souls;
Though bravely sails embark today,
Pale Death sits at the prow,
And few shall know we ever lived,
A hundred years from now.

O mighty human brotherhood
Why fiercely war and strive,
While God's great world has ample space
For everything alive?
Broad fields uncultured and unclaimed
Are waiting for the plow
Of progress that shall make them bloom
A hundred years from now.

Why should we try so earnestly
In life's short, narrow span
On golden stairs to climb so high
Above our brother man?
Why blindly at an earthly shrine
In slavish homage bow?
Our gold will rust, ourselves be dust,
A hundred years from now.

Why prize so much the world's applause?
Why dread so much its blame?
A fleeting echo is its voice
Of censure or of fame;
The praise that thrills the heart,
The scom that dyes with shame the brow,
Will be as long-forgotten dreams
A hundred years from now.

O patient hearts, that meekly bear
Your weary load of wrong
O earnest hearts, that bravely dare,
And striving, grow more strong!
Press on till perfect peace is won;
You'll never dream of how
You struggled o'er life's thorny road
A hundred years from now.

Grand, lofty souls, who live and toil
That freedom, right and truth
Alone may rule the universe,
For you is endless youth.
When 'mid the blest with God you rest,
The grateful land shall bow
Above your clay in reverent love
A hundred years from now.

Earth's empires rise and fall.
Time! like breakers on thy shore
They rush upon thy rocks of doom,
Go down, and are no more.
The starry wilderness of worlds
That gem night's radiant brow
Will light the skies for other eyes
A hundred years from now.

Our Father, to whose sleepless eye
The past and future stand
An open page, like babes we cling
To Thy protecting hand;
Change, sorrow, death, are naught to us,
If we may safely bow
Beneath the shadow of Thy throne
A hundred years from now.

- Mary A. Ford (partially published in The Best of the Old Farmer's Almanac: the first 200 years / Judson Hale, editor)

God's World

2007-01-03T20:57:00.000-08:00

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!

Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!

Thy mists, that roll and rise!

Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag

And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag

To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!

World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart, -- Lord, I do fear
Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me, -- let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

- Edna St. Vincent Millay, Renascence

Collection of Ideas

A Hundred Years From Now

God's World