The Sea Of Life

Life, this great sea
I am cast within,
No shoreline I can see
In this sea among men.

Waters so vast
Overwhelm my soul.
In the sea I am cast,
In the depths I roll.

How churns the waves
On this sea so great.
My soul understanding craves
Midst this fearful state.

The Swallows

What a joy it is to watch the swallows gliding in the air at evening time. How they dart and flit ranging high into the air, and then plummeting just overhead. The swallows are experts at catching mosquitoes, and are ever at the close of day diligently pursuing that task.

They cut corners in mid-air effortlessly utilizing their triangular wings. Happy, serene creatures they seem to be skimming over the treetops. Generally they fly four or five together just above the treetops along a little rivulet in a secluded valley.

The swallows maneuver so easily and freely in the air, and make it seem like such fun. Somehow swallows seem not quite real, but almost like spirits or thoughts born of fancy, or like the shadowy figures of a dream. They seem so much a part of the scene, adornments that belong at that place at that time, that we often do not take notice of them.

Flying in their peculiar circles, swallows are entrancing sights. They seem not quite of earth, but inhabitants of the heavens, at one with the clouds and breezes, members of an angelic band dancing in the air.

Oh, To Soar Like The Hawk

Oh, to soar like the hawk! To range far into the sky, and make my home among those clouds he goes flying by. See him gliding now, that master of the air, who rides out the fiercest gales with ease, and makes his home on the peaks of clouds.

His huge wings take him miles with ease, and grant him lord of the sky, a sailing in the blue. See him now motionless in the air, a brown spot in all that vastness, a lone symbol proclaiming life's glory.

The hawk rides the air waves as ships ride the waves of the sea. One moment he is just overhead, and the next a mere speck in the sky. Hear his piercing whistle, his shrill call, as it echoes from hill to hill.

The hawk is a free creature. He is not tied to our earth, or subjected to our customs. He is not restricted to our dusty and thorny pathways. The hawk goes his own way, and is not bounded by the hills as he knows no boundaries save those of his own indominable spirit.

He flies above our petty woes, and pays no heed to our strife as he soars above the noise and soot we live amongst. His realm is that of the clouds and the freshest air. The winds that cool him are those nearest the heavens. A glorious experience would be seeing life as he sees it. To be as the hawk is our aspiration, and enjoy such liberty.

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