I Shall Be Glad

If I can put new hope within the heart
Of one who has lost hope,
If I can help a brother up
Some difficult long slope

That seems too steep for tired feet to go,
If I can help him climb
Into the light upon the hill's far crest,
I shall begrudge no time

Or strength that I spend, for well I know
How great may be his need.
If I can help through any darkened hour,
I shall be glad indeed.

For I recall how often I have been
Distressed, distraught, dismayed,
And hands have reached to help, and voices called
That kept me unafraid.
If I can share this help that I have had,
God knows I shall be glad.

- By Grace Noll Crowell

Rose!

A wonderful poem from my dear friend, Pooja. The way she has described the beauty and power of a rose, is reminiscent of her own personality. You may read the whole poem on her blog here. A few lines,

Roses sparkle in beauty n pain, so does the enduring soul,
Roses are blind to human faults, much like our forgiving soul,
Roses stay for a lifetime, akin to the memories of our soul,
Roses gleam pure with red, like the blood stream in our soul,
Roses bring solace to all, crystal pure for every reverberating soul..

Under the Balcony!

O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!
O moon with the brows of gold!
Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south!
And light for my love her way,
Lest her little feet should stray
On the windy hill and the wold!
O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!
O moon with the brows of gold!

O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!
O ship with the wet, white sail!
Put in, put in, to the port to me!
For my love and I would go
To the land where the daffodils blow
In the heart of a violet dale!
O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!
O ship with the wet, white sail!

O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!
O bird that sits on the spray!
Sing on, sing on, from your soft brown throat!
And my love in her little bed
Will listen, and lift her head
From the pillow, and come my way!
O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!
O bird that sits on the spray!

O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!
O blossom with lips of snow!
Come down, come down, for my love to wear!
You will die on her head in a crown,
You will die in a fold of her gown,
To her little light heart you will go!
O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!
O blossom with lips of snow!

- By Oscar Wilde