Midnight and I ponder
on the world and life and people,
ponder on infinity and God, ponder
on the reasons and designs of
created things. I ponder on the
world within me, that world of
emotion which chokes and smothers,
delights and intoxicates, and
which concocts on the slightest
pretense monstrous fears, and
embellishes a maidens smile with
ineffable beauty.I ponder on
the hopes and dreads which seem to
imbue my thoughts side by side and
day by day. I ponder on the doubts
that weight me down, and on the
beliefs that prop me up.
I
explore my heart for a grain of
truth. There has got to be a
reasonable plan of living. There
has got to be some order out of
all this chaos. My thoughts are
jumbled. a veil has been placed
between me and truth. My life is
slipping away, and so little do I
really know about life.
I have
not lived a day that has not been
replete with uncertainty and
discontent. How I search for
something true and lasting that
will satisfy this longing in my
soul.
In the night I look out
the window and see the stars, and
they seem so far away. I shudder
not from the cold, but from
loneliness. All my years have not
yielded me the peace I sought. All
my searching has not yielded me
understanding.
We spend our
lives searching for truth. We
search for it in our work and in
other people, we search for it in
the earth and in the sky, we
search for it with our hands, our
hearts, and with our minds, we
search with our senses, our
pleasures, and our woes.
We
search for truth in the night when
we are alone with our thoughts. We
search for truth when we are in a
crowd of people, look for it in
their eyes, and on their faces,
listen for it in their words, and
in their voices.
Truth is the
tantalus that draws the scientist
to continue his exhausting
experiments, and that prompts the
writer to search his soul for
expression. It is the belief that
maybe truth is over the next hill
that keeps us
going.
Where goes the light at
night?
In fall where flees the
green unseen?
Where flies the
robin "til spring?
In the sun
where goes the dew unto?
Where
goes the stars in day?
Where
goes our soul to stay?
The Old
Gate
The house where I was
born
Has long since
gone,
And I feel quite
forlorn
As my parents have
passed on.
Though sagging with
weight of years
The old yard
gate yet stands in place.
It
almost brings forth tears
So
many memories round it grace.
My
feet have trod past it
there
Since I was a lad
small
Sometimes heavy with
care,
Sometimes caring not at
all.
Through summers sweltering
hot,
Winters long and
cold
Ever swinging about
It
has opened times
untold.
I returned to
the place where I had been born
after many years. The old
farmhouse had been torn down, and
my parents had passed away. But
the sunlight and the trees seemed
the same. The little stream
flowing over the rocks seemed the
same. The birds sang just as
sweetly, and even seemed the same
birds I heard as a child. The
birds that cheered me then, they
seemed to cheer me now.The wind
had not changed as it still made
that same wailing sound, and still
rustled the leaves and cooled my
brow. Those were the same hills I
used to play upon and climb and
pretend as I watched the clouds,
and viewed the valley below. Yet
it was not the same, and would
never ever be the same
again.
