This 17th century poem reminds us to that time and youth are fleeting. Make the most of your life while you can, for days once gone shall never return. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may…”. Enjoy.
To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time
By Robert Herrick, 1591 – 1674
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.
“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” is a poem written in 1922 by Robert Frost, and published in 1923 in his New Hampshire volume. It is considered by many to be one of the greatest poems in the English language. The vivid imagery he is able to create makes it one of my favorites, especially in wintertime. Enjoy.
Stopping By Woods On Snowy Evening
By 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.
Printed here without permission under Fair Use for non-commercial gain.
As through the world we take our way
How oftentimes we hear
The praises sung of wealthy men,
Of prince, and duke and peer.
The poets tell us of their fame,
They are lauded o’er the land,
But you very seldom hear them sing
Of the honest working man.
They praise the wealthy banker,
The purse-proud millionaire;
Their pockets have golden lining,
So they’re praised from everywhere.
Let others sing the praises
Of those darlings of the land,
But mine shall be a nobler theme–
The honest working man.
Let monarchs prize their glittering crowns
And all their royal host,
Let lordlings brag of their blue blood–
They have nothing else to boast.
But what is all their rank, compared
To our hero, true and grand,
One of fair Nature’s noblemen–
The honest working man.
His hands may be both rough and hard,
His clothes and speech be plain,
But you will find his manly heart
Without a spot or stain.
And there are some whose clothes are fine.
Whose hands are soft and white,
But the secret records of their lives
Could never bear the light.
May Heaven’s choicest blessings fall
Upon that hero’s head,
Who bravely toils throughout each day
To earn his loved ones bread.
You’ll find no monarch who can show
A record half so grand.
God bless great labor’s true-born knight–
The honest working man.
So now of Fortune’s favored ones,
Henceforth let less be said,
And more be spoken of the man
Who toils for daily bread.
God bless each hardy son of toil
That labors in the land.
Let us give three cheers with right good will
For the honest working man.
