Brother Mine by Hannah

 "Mose Emmanuel"

Our mom was pregnant we just found,

She told four boys and me.

Another boy? There was no way!

A girl it had to be!

We tried to think of different names,

Penelope or Sue,

But Mom warned me that we might need,

Not pink booties, but blue!

The clinic where the gender's told,

I went with Mom and Dad.

The nurse examined Mom's new babe,

A girl who'd make me glad!

I sat on chair, tried not to squeal,

I shaked and quaked with joy!

But on the screen there had appeared,

Not little girl but boy!

I sat and cried as Mom looked on,

I cared not who could see.

This little babe was not a sis,

But brother soon to be!

Now, when I sat and wrote this down,

I watched my brother play,

And wandered back to when we met,

And I said he could stay.

The twenty-sixth of day so bright,

The day my brother came.

At ten o'clock we got the call,

We've never been the same!

I went to meet my brother Mose,

And hold him in my arms.

He had a head of dark, spiked hair,

Just one of many charms!

I sat and cried as Mom looked on,

I cared not who could see,

This little babe was not a girl,

But brother mine to be!

I sat in tears as I realized

How foolish I had been!

This little treasure from above,

Was now my closest kin!

A Psalm of Life

 A Psalm of Life

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

   Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

   And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

   And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

   Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

   Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to-morrow

   Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

   And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

   Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

   In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

   Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

   Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act,— act in the living Present!

   Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

   We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

   Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

   Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

   Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

   With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

   Learn to labor and to wait.

The Village Blacksmith

 The Village Blacksmith

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Under a spreading chestnut-tree

    ⁠The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

    With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

    Are strong as iron bands.

 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;

    His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

    He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

    For he owes not any man.

 

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

    You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

    With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

    When the evening sun is low.

 

And children coming home from school

    Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

    And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

    Like chaff from a threshing floor.

 

He goes on Sunday to the church,

    And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,

    He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,

    And it makes his heart rejoice.

 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

    Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

    How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

    A tear out of his eyes.

 

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,

    Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

    Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

    Has earned a night's repose.

 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

    For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

    Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

    Each burning deed and thought!