The Beautiful Soul

When clouds oppress me and I am ill at ease, I think of her with the beautiful soul. There always seems to be a dearth of such persons in the world. Her tenderness softens and smooths her aspect. The effect of the thought of her is at once pleasing. To meditate on her is a journey into the divine.

She is that ideal which can never be paid too much homage. She is that perfection which can never be fully appreciated. She is a purity which can only come from God. She personifies love in every word and action, and in every particle of her being.

She is already that perfection for which our race aspires, and may reach in some distant millennium. She is what we all are meant to be. She is more spirit than mortal. That she exists among us in this throng of fools, knaves, and bestial hearts is a never ceasing wonder.

How we should treasure her, and heap praise upon her. She has come among us in her gentleness, and we are given a glimpse of heaven in human form. We are blessed with the beholding of that ideal grace and beauty which is only hinted at in our best thoughts.

I think it not unrealistic to believe that she could do no hurt. Her hands were formed to aid and minister, to soothe and allay, and not to wound or inflict. Her voice was formed to inspire and redeem, and not to scold or abuse.

It is not in her to slight or maltreat. There is nought about her to dislike. She could in no way inspire anger. It would be more natural for water to gravitate uphill, than for her to appear unseemly.

Her purpose in life is good, and her reason for living the well being of others. Her modesty does not permit her even the common vanities. Though she outshines the sun in elegance, she has the humility of a saint.

Loving Someone

The sole purpose of our life is in loving someone. By loving someone we are saved from becoming selfish, cruel, vindictive creatures who are greedy and heartless. Thereby we make the ultimate sacrifice, that of giving up ourself to another, that of taking a chance on someone else, that of taking a chance on being hurt.

From making this seeming sacrifice we gain all that is good and beautiful, we reap a share of the glories of heaven before we die, we glimpse what is hidden to those who hate and lovers of self, the ecstasy of unconditional love.

We are given a glimmering sense of what the angels must feel when we love. From love accrues the prosperity and salvation of us as human beings.

Love Is What The Poet Feels

Love is what the poet feels,
Love is his way out,
While others cast about,
He before the throne of love kneels.

In the day, in the night,
Love does hold him sway,
He is in love to stay.
Love is his only light.

The stars up in the sky
Speak to him of love,
And every cloud above
Does make a poet sigh.

Love is his world you see,
Out on every hand
He sees love in the land.
His whole world is beauty.

Love is his companion
Everywhere he goes,
For it is love he knows,
For he and love are one.

The Past

The past cannot be altered. The past is held in a state of eternal suspension, the words and deeds live there forever, the events were and nothing can undo them. The past is like an old picture, it changes not. Only the present has power for change, and that change is only a breath as the present continually feeds the past.

Events such as the assassinations of presidents Lincoln or Kennedy stare back at us like an old lithograph, and cannot be changed. The pages of history having been written cannot be rewritten. The past can be analyzed and interpreted over and over, but the one true happening stands until the end of time.

Life is a chain of events. We exist because certain events did or did not happen. The past cements those sequences of events indefinitely. We may refer to them, reflect about them, reminisce about them all we wish, but we cannot change even one little thing. Our powers stop with this second, and cannot go back even an instant. The invisible gate locks and what has happened is secured forever. The past is sealed and we cannot interfere.

What has occurred is over with, and though it may have effects upon the future, the specific action which took place can never be repeated again identically. Things will not be, and cannot be the same today as they were yesterday. Something is always different. Today grows out of yesterday, and today is always new.

It is a rushing wave, this now, that sweeps us along unceasingly from birth to death. We are never really conscious of now until it is past, for by the time we have thought about it, now has become the past. We blink our eyes now, but by the time we have thought about it a few seconds have past, and that blinking of our eyes has become a part of history, and though a million years may pass the fact can never be altered that on a certain day at a certain time we blinked our eyes.

It does not matter whether events are witnessed or not, they still take their eternal place in the record book of time in the universe. There is not a leaf that falls to ground, not an ant that scurries underfoot, not a pebble tossed in a stream, and not a drop of rain that does not have everlasting significance.

The following wonderful words were written by Ann. After visiting my page recently Ann sent me an email expressing her thoughts regarding my writing above, "The Past". I asked Ann's permission to share her beautiful thoughts with others by placing them on my page. Thank you Ann for permission to place your eloquent words on my page.

Ann's Thoughts

I wanted also to thank you for putting "The Past" into words. It so closely echos what I feel, though I could never do it the justice that you have. Whenever I watch the sunrise, which is often, I always think that this new day is a brand new page in life's book. Yesterday's page has been turned, but what was written there will remain throughout eternity.....unchanged.......forever. Today's page, however, is still blank, just waiting for each of us to write upon it what we will. I try to ask myself what I will write for my life today. The answer, of course, doesn't always come easily, but if I can try to make every single minute count, so that not one page has been wasted then I will know that I'm "living" and not merely waiting to die


Ann is a wonderful artist and you may view her beautiful artwork at her website-Please visit Ann's site at--Ann's Art: A Work In Progress

Golden Moments

What is I seek as the hands of the clock wind round?
A heart pleasing sight, a heart pleasing sound,
Fairer threads from which to weave thoughts more fair,
And golden moments woven from the golden air,
And that I can lift my eyes and see,
Hope and love and sweet tranquillity.

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