come down to just a few thoughts. Pride,
contempt, honor, and pleasure all
evaporate away, and what is left is a
butterfly fluttering over green fields.
Fear, hatred, anger all condense into
nothingness, but dewdrops on a rose's
petal last. Wanting, longing, needing
pass from sight, while bluebirds sing
and pass eternally before the mind's
On a twig in May are the happiest
thoughts of life. Ill has no power to
harm a heart where crickets and frogs
serenade in recollections each night.
Woe and grief lose their power when the
wind and rain of a thousand blessed
showers returns to sedate the mind.
have loved some things, and that cannot
be taken from me. The past has had some
precious moments for me. I remember
mornings in spring when fragrance,
warmth, and beauty was everywhere. Then
I cared, felt, and I most surely loved.
I remember summer evenings just before
dark, and the quiet settling over me.
These memories can never be lost
regardless of what happens in the
future. Surely nothing can block out
those good thoughts. That is all I have,
a few dear memories, that is all I
really own, all I really
yearns to explore, to reach out and
communicate, and to find something to
love and believe. We need something to
reach out for even if only a straw.
There are days we seem to have the whole
world right there in our hand, and our
thoughts go wild with hope ringing from
every word, and happiness is in every
smile. Then on the other hand there are
days that are just plain empty.
are days of sunshine when faith breathes
in our heart. There are days that sweep
us right off our feet into those billowy
white clouds, and we forget the
objectors until our feet touch terra
firma again. There are days that come
with a sweetness we cannot define, and
whisper music in our ears. Life is all a
sham except for on some special days
when we remember to believe.
Otherworldly images in
Beneath the moon shining
Forming in the
Apparitions of every
Clouds across the moon
Unearthly images in the
Darkness in the
And voices calling in the
Shadows fall all
Forming images on the
Moving seems to me
eerie hidden mystery.
Often there comes to one
regret almost divine
Of some thought
not quite won,
But which lingers in
Bordering near the
Lies the regret without
Itself does not impart,
regret just the same.
Is it past
Of something beautiful
Something one cannot see
the mind tossed?though it does give some
The thought is not
Perhaps I'll know
bathed in a cool stream, a being too
fair for reality, and more appropriate
for dreams and music. Vivid yellow and
black, the goldfinch seemed to glow in
that water. Then it flew to a nearby
limb scattering water droplets as it
The goldfinch burst into sweet
song from that perch; song that one
expects to come from a creature so
brightly marked. It was no larger than
the elm leaves at its side, a tiny
bundle of cheer.
Hastily I turned from
that too lovely being, for here was
beauty beyond anything I had ever
experienced in my own life, and it made
me feel sad and alone. Here was proof of
how wondrous life can be, and I was
reminded of my lack of faith.
From The Way That I Think
realize the power of my thought
myself and others also.
Or sadness may
From the way that I think.
can create heaven before me,
paradise Before my eyes,
Or Hell and
Where all the good
From the way that I think.
make myself happy or sad,
To laugh or
to cry with sorrow,
I make tomorrow
way that I think.
I cannot blame
anyone at allSpringtime
If somehow my life is
The blame on me does
Life is dark or bright
the way that I think.
Springtime is a
movement. It is a thing that must be,
like the sun must shine and the rain
must fall. Indeed, it comes in spite of
all. Spring comes in spite of wars and
deaths, in spite of earthquakes and
volcanic eruptions, and in spite of
social unrest and upheavals.
beautifully, serenely, and simply like
it always has and it always will.
Regardless of what happens in our
personal lives, the ups and downs, the
disappointments, the fears, the doubts,
the loss of loved ones, our illnesses,
our heartaches, and the changes in our
lives, spring always comes again, and
not one whit changed. Spring is always
youthful, jovial, and fresh each time
The chief contention of spring
is that there is something better. In
springtime we look over our condition
and perceive there is room for
improvement, and because everything is
so bright and cheerful we really believe
we can accomplish it. As the twigs put
on new buds, we too reach out in new
directions with new life.
It is a time
of awakening and quickening, when life
is prodded into action once again. All
those hopes and dreams we had put to
rest are revived. Pleasant thoughts flit
across our mind more often, making
inroads through the bramble and tangle
of last winter's despondency and
desperation. In spite of ourself we take
on the season's face, and our heart
stirs with happiness. The ice is melted
in the pond, and the dormant fields
bloom once more.
I can never seem to
get over my fascination at the effect
the spring warmth has upon living
things. Suddenly the sap rises in the
trees and the insect becomes animate.
Remarkable changes occur, as myriads of
colors meet the eye, and multifarious
sounds serenade the ear.
forms and outlines are decorated in an
infinite variety of ways. The shapes of
bushes, trees, and vines take on such
rich modifications as to overwhelm the
senses and try the imagination. Before
our very eyes the transformation accrues
as accretion upon accretion of green
luxuriously entwines the world in the