Posted on 01/18/2020 12:18:45 PM PST by spirited irish
This moment of a nation, a people who lived free,
lived in liberty so unique, so true, so brief.
Praise be to God for all of it – even if fleeting, fading, and gone.
It was, in our time, glorious.
(Excerpt) Read more at frontpagemag.com ...
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s
by James Whitcomb Riley
WASN’T it pleasant, O brother mine,
In those old days of the lost sunshine
Of youth — when the Saturday’s chores were through,
And the “ Sunday’s wood “ in the kitchen, too,
And we went visiting, “ me and you, “
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s? —
” Me and you “ — And the morning fair,
With the dewdrops twinkling everywhere;
The scent of the cherry-blossoms blown
After us, in the roadway lone,
Our capering shadows onward thrown —
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!
It all comes back so clear to-day!
Though I am as bald as you are gray, —
Out by the barn-lot and down the lane
We patter along in the dust again,
As light as the tips of the drops of the rain,
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
The few last houses of the town;
Then on, up the high creek-bluffs and down;
Past the squat toll-gate, with its well-sweep pole,
The bridge, and “ the old “ babtizin’-hole,” “
Loitering, awed, o’er pool and shoal,
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
We cross the pasture, and through the wood,
Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood,
Where the hammering “ red-heads “ hopped awry,
And the buzzard “ raised “ in the “ clearing “ -sky
And lolled and circled, as we went by
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
Or, stayed by the glint of the redbird’s wings,
Or the glitter of song that the bluebird sings,
All hushed we feign to strike strange trails,
As the “ big braves “ do in the Indian tales,
Till again our real quest lags and fails —
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s. —
And the woodland echoes with yells of mirth
That make old war-whoops of minor worth! . . .
Where such heroes of war as we? —
With bows and arrows of fantasy,
Chasing each other from tree to tree
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!
And then in the dust of the road again;
And the teams we met, and the countrymen;
And the long highway, with sunshine spread
As thick as butter on country bread,
Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s. —
For only, now, at the road’s next bend
To the right we could make out the gable-end
Of the fine old Huston homestead — not
Half a mile from the sacred spot
Where dwelt our Saint in her simple cot —
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
Why, I see her now in the open door
Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o’er
The clapboard roof! — And her face — ah, me!
Wasn’t it good for a boy to see —
And wasn’t it good for a boy to be
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s? —
The jelly — the jam and the marmalade,
And the cherry and quince “ preserves “ she made!
And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear,
With cinnamon in ‘em, and all things rare! —
And the more we ate was the more to spare,
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!
Ah! was there, ever, so kind a face
And gentle as hers, or such a grace
Of welcoming, as she cut the cake
Or the juicy pies that she joyed to make
Just for the visiting children’s sake —
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!
The honey, too, in its amber comb
One only finds in an old farm-home;
And the coffee, fragrant and sweet, and ho!
So hot that we gloried to drink it so,
With spangles of tears in our eyes, you know —
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
And the romps we took, in our glad unrest! —
Was it the lawn that we loved the best,
With its swooping swing in the locust trees,
Or was it the grove, with its leafy breeze,
Or the dim haymow, with its fragrancies —
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
Far fields, bottom-lands, creek-banks — all,
We ranged at will. — Where the waterfall
Laughed all day as it slowly poured
Over the dam by the old mill-ford,
While the tail-race writhed, and the mill-wheel roared —
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
But home, with Aunty in nearer call,
That was the best place, after all! —
The talks on the back porch, in the low
Slanting sun and the evening glow,
With the voice of counsel that touched us so,
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
And then, in the garden — near the side
Where the beehives were and the path was wide, —
The apple-house — like a fairy cell —
With the little square door we knew so well,
And the wealth inside but our tongues could tell —
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
And the old spring-house, in the cool green gloom
Of the willow trees, — and the cooler room
Where the swinging shelves and the crocks were kept,
Where the cream in a golden languor slept,
While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept —
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
And as many a time have you and I —
Barefoot boys in the days gone by —
Knelt, and in tremulous ecstasies
Dipped our lips into sweets like these, —
Memory now is on her knees
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s. —
For, O my brother so far away,
This is to tell you — she waits to-day
To welcome us: — Aunt Mary fell
Asleep this morning, whispering, “ Tell
The boys to come. “ . . . And all is well
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
Nice poem.
Throw in 50 Italians in one house and a lot of great Italian food and bocce ball and it was a great childhood! :)
No kidding 100 people in a backyard good for 50 :)
Cheap hot dogs, cheap beer, cheap soda and good Italian food...
And those parties were A Thousand Times Better than the parties thrown now for my nephews and niece in posh, upper crust..STUFFY, BORING restaurants.
Money don’t make a party or a good time.
We didn’t hold fast, lost faith, and now,
slipped and vanishing before our eyes,
in a generation’s blink taken, given, freedom
whisking past like whispers of ghosts.
A progressive rise, revolt of elites, opened borders
sovereignty spent, all for profit and power, and nothing left.
Land of gutted factories, torn families, wasted lives
shattered dreams, vacant, blown-through memories.
- From link
We are at a precipice right now, and Trump seems to be the only man keeping us from falling...
Mustv’e been written in the days before MAGA came around.
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/stopping-by-woods-on-a-snowy-evening-by-robert-frost
I have always loved that poem as it mirrors my childhood almost to a “T”...Thanks for posting.
Don’t think things have changed in America? The following is from Tocqueville’s DEMOCRACY IN AMERICA, Volume Two, Part Two, Chapter 15 published in 1840:
“In the United States, on the seventh day of every week, the trading and working life of the nation seems suspended; all noises cease; a deep tranquility, say rather the solemn calm of meditation, succeeds the turmoil of the week, and the soul resumes possession and contemplation of itself. Upon this day the marts of traffic are deserted; every member of the community, accompanied by his children, goes to church, where he listens to strange language which would seem unsuited to his ear. He is told of the countless evils caused by pride and covetousness: he is reminded of the necessity of checking his desires, of the finer pleasures which belong to virtue alone, and of the true happiness which attends it. On his return home, he does not turn to the ledgers of his calling, but he opens the book of Holy Scripture; there he meets with sublime or affecting descriptions of the greatness and goodness of the Creator, of the infinite magnificence of the handiwork of God, of the lofty destinies of man, of his duties, and of his immortal privileges. Thus it is that the American at times steals an hour from himself; and laying aside for a while the petty passions which agitate his life, and the ephemeral interests which engross it, he strays at once into an ideal world, where all is great, eternal, and pure.”
No doubt many still do this, but secularism is taking over.
Sadly, China has passed us in power and economy, it happened sometime during the reign of Obama. Obama bankrupted us, caused the flight of much of our business, economy and technology, surrounded our power and money to our enemies, and turned the country into a third-world ghetto.
Right now the U.S. is like Betelgeuse, a Red Giant that looks impressive but is dying and facing structural collapse.
Just look at this to see how things have fundamentally changed since the time Reagan was president:
“It’s morning again in America”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EU-IBF8nwSY
Can you imagine that anywhere in America today?
Bookmark
Thanks.
I try so hard to recall the details of my youth but much of it seems to run together and each year more fades into the past.
Life
I wonder what it’s all about, and why
We suffer so, when little things go wrong?
We make our life a struggle,
When life should be a song.
Our troubles break and drench us,
Like spray on the cleaving prow
Of some trim Gloucester schooner
As it dips in a graceful bow.
Our troubles break and drench us
But like that cleaving prow,
The wind will fan and dry us
And we’ll watch some other bow.
But why does sorrow drench us
When our fellow passes on?
He’s just exchanged life’s dreary dirge
For an eternal life of song
What is the inborn human trait
That frowns on a life of song?
That makes us weep at the journey’s end,
When the journey was oft-times wrong?
Weep when we reach the door
That opens to let us in,
And brings to us eternal peace
As it closes again on sin.
Millions have gone before us,
And millions will come behind
So why do we curse and fight
At a fate wise and kind
We hang onto a jaded life
A life of sorrow and pain
A life that warps and breaks us,
And we try to run through it again.
—Ronald Reagan, 1928
Click the link for the full poem, from the website "Poems That Every Child Should Know". But here is an except from the last stanza:
An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,
You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear,
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
Ha! I can just see a good tickle being administered with the last ‘Watch out!
To fun!
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