This is such a lovely poem. Very good counsel to live by don't you think?


Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember
What peace there may be in silence
As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly,
And listen to others, they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive person, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become bitter or vain
For always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble,
It is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery,
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
Many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
It is perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering
the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune,
But do not distress yourself with imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You! Are a child of the universe; You! Have a right to be here
And weather it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should
Therefore, be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be,
And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life
Keep peace with your soul.
With all it’s sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
It is still a beautiful world,
Be cheerful and strive to be happy.
Yes its a great philosophy. Ive heard it many years ago but It's nice to be reminded! Thank you
My favourite poem was written about 1600 by John Donne. Its about the importance of every person:-

No man is an Island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.
Hi ya 'Bluenoser',Shandy this is nowhere near the poetic quality as the posted poetry above.I have not written poetry since high school,save for on incidence,until this past April so I am but a 'baby'poet.It is the sentiment that I think you may appreciate.
         We Are Blessed 

 When you wake up in the morning
 When a glorious new day's dawning
 Stop and look around you
At the riches that surround you.
And think of all the children
 Who have no bed to sleep in
 And search the chambers of your heart
 That's where you have to start.
 And though you know it isn't funny
 To see those who have no money
 Do you drop a coin in their cup
 For them to have some food to sup
 Or do you just walk on by
 And let that ol' man die
 You can choose to close your eyes
 And not listen to their cries,
 Or you could do what Christ asks
 And turn to face the task
 As many hearts as you can reach,
 Should be your goal to teach,
 As many a younger mind
 That your search should find
 And heal as many souls
 As it takes to make you whole.
I believe DESIDERATA was found in an old Spanish church,authour unknown (My guess,a priest)
i love this poem, it sums up Ireland, church, history, love, changing times, literature.....

Penal Laws

Burn Ovid with the rest.
Lovers will find
A hedge school for themselves
and learn by heart
All that the clergy banish from the mind,
When hands are joined
and head bows in the dark.

by Austen Clarke
Here is a gorgeous poem on Love:
"O Tell me the Truth About Love" - W. H. Auden Some say that love's a little boy, And some say it's a bird, Some say it makes the world go round, And some say that's absurd, And when I asked the man next door, Who looked as if he knew, His wife got very cross indeed, And said it wouldn't do. Does it look like a pair of pyjamas, Or the ham in a temperance hotel? Does its odour remind one of llamas, Or has it a comforting smell? Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is, Or soft as eiderdown fluff? Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? O tell me the truth about love. Our history books refer to it In cryptic little notes, It's quite a common topic on The Transatlantic boats; I've found the subject mentioned in Accounts of suicides, And even seen it scribbled on The backs of railway guides. Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian, Or boom like a military band? Could one give a first-rate imitation On a saw or a Steinway Grand? Is it singing at parties a riot? Does it only like Classical stuff? Will it stop when one want to be quiet? O tell me the truth about love. I looked inside the summer-house, It wasn't even there, I tried the Thames at Maidenhead, And Brighton's bracing air, I don't know what the blackbird sang, Or what the tulip said; But it wasn't in the chicken-run, Or underneath the bed. Can it pull extraordinary faces? Is it usually sick on a swing? Does it spend all its time at the races, Or fiddling with pieces of string? Has it views of its own about money? Does it think Patriotism enough? Are its stories vulgar but funny? O tell me the truth about love. When it comes, will it come without warning, Just as I'm picking my nose? Will it knock on the door in the morning, Or tread in the bus on my toes? Will it come like a change in the weather? Will its greeting be courteous or rough? Will it alter my life altogether? O tell me the truth about love. 
A favourite of mine from 17th century about living for today because life is short.

To his Coy Mistress
by Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
To me this says it all.
 Walt Whitman (1855)
This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body. 
Each that we lose takes part of us;
   A crescent still abides,
Which like the moon, some turbid night,
   Is summoned by the tides.
~Emily  Dickinson
Another favourite of mine.

The Fired Pot
by Anna Wickham

In our town, people live in rows.
The only irregular thing in a street is the steeple;
And where that points to, God only knows,
And not the poor disciplined people!

And I have watched the women growing old,
Passionate about pins, and pence, and soap,
Till the heart within my wedded breast grew cold,
And I lost hope.

But a young soldier came to our town,
He spoke his mind most candidly.
He asked me quickly to lie down,
And that was very good for me.

For though I gave him no embrace—
Remembering my duty—
He altered the expression of my face,
And gave me back my beauty.
The Bells:  Edgar Allan Poe.
The word tintinnabulation sends chills up my spine, in a sort of Runic rhyme...
Sorry for the length.
Hear the sledges with the bells-Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens,
seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And an in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells,bells, Bells, bells, bells-
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
Hear the loud alarum bells-Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor, Now- now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging, And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows:
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling, And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-
Of the bells- Of the bells, bells, bells,bells, Bells, bells, bells-
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
Hear the tolling of the bells-Iron Bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people- ah, the people-
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All Alone And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human-
They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells-Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells:
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells- Bells, bells, bells-
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
The Cremation of Sam McGee BY ROBERT W. SERVICE

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge
of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee
was from Tennessee,
where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home
in the South to roam
'round the Pole,
God only knows.

He was always cold,
but the land of gold
seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say
in his homely way
that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day
we were mushing our way
over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold!
through the parka's fold
it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close,
then the lashes froze
till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun,
but the only one
to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night,
as we lay packed tight
in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed,
and the stars o'erhead
were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me,
and "Cap," says he,
"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do,
I'm asking that you
won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low
that I couldn't say no;
then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold,
and it's got right hold
till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—
it's my awful dread
of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear
that, foul or fair,
you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need
is a thing to heed,
so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn;
but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh,
and he raved all day
of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall
a corpse was all
that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath
in that land of death,
and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid
that I couldn't get rid,
because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh,
and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true,
and it's up to you
to cremate those last remains.

" Now a promise made
is a debt unpaid,
and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come,
though my lips were dumb,
in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night,
by the lone firelight,
while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes
to the homeless snows—
O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day
that quiet clay
seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went,
though the dogs were spent
and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad,
and I felt half mad,
but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing
to the hateful thing,
and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge
of Lake Lebarge,
and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice,
but I saw in a trice
it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it,
and I thought a bit,
and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I,
with a sudden cry,
"is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore
from the cabin floor,
and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found
that was lying around,
and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared,
and the furnace roared—
such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole
in the glowing coal,
and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike,
for I didn't like
to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled,
and the huskies howled,
and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold,
but the hot sweat rolled
down my cheeks,
and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke
in an inky cloak
went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread,
but I bravely said:
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked,
and it's time I looked"; ...
then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam,
looking cool and calm,
in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile
you could see a mile,
and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here,
but I greatly fear
you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree,
down in Tennessee,
it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done
in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails
have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights
have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge
of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee. 
There's Wisdom in Women - Rupert Brooke June 1913

"Oh love is fair, and love is rare" my dear one she said
"But love goes lightly over" I bowed her foolish head
And kissed her hair and laughed at her. Such a child was she
So new to love, so true to love, and she spoke so bitterly

But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known
And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own
Or how should my dear one, being ignorant and young
Have cried on love so bitterly, with so true a tongue?
Thanks to all of you for such beautiful words, that make a person stop and think. Keep them coming