I wanted to quote "bohemian rhapsody" by queen, but I could quite agree with it.
But "welcome to the jungle" by guns n roses be spicy.
SINGAPORE EXPATS FORUM
Singapore Expat Forum and Message Board for Expats in Singapore & Expatriates Relocating to Singapore
Heartfelt poem of the day
The Well of Grief
Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief
turning downward through its black water
to the place we cannot breath
will never know the source from which we drink,
the secret water, cold and clear,
nor find in the darkness glimmering
the small round coins
thrown by those who wished for something else.
-- David Whyte --
Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief
turning downward through its black water
to the place we cannot breath
will never know the source from which we drink,
the secret water, cold and clear,
nor find in the darkness glimmering
the small round coins
thrown by those who wished for something else.
-- David Whyte --
They'll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate -
The cards and stars that tumble as they will.
Tomorrow manifests and brings the bill
For every kiss and kill, the small and great.
You want to know the future, love? then wait:
I'll answer your impatient questions. Still -
They'll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate,
The cards and stars that tumble as they will.
I'll come to you tonight, dear, when it's late,
You will not see me; you may feel a chill.
I'll wait until you sleep, then take my fill,
And that will be your future on a plate.
They'll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate.
N. Gaiman
The cards and stars that tumble as they will.
Tomorrow manifests and brings the bill
For every kiss and kill, the small and great.
You want to know the future, love? then wait:
I'll answer your impatient questions. Still -
They'll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate,
The cards and stars that tumble as they will.
I'll come to you tonight, dear, when it's late,
You will not see me; you may feel a chill.
I'll wait until you sleep, then take my fill,
And that will be your future on a plate.
They'll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate.
N. Gaiman
" The most important things are the hardest to say.
They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out
But it' s more than that isn' t it?
The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away
And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you' ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried whilst you were saying it.
That’s the worst I think. When the secret stays locked away not for the want of a teller but for the want of an understanding ear”
They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out
But it' s more than that isn' t it?
The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away
And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you' ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried whilst you were saying it.
That’s the worst I think. When the secret stays locked away not for the want of a teller but for the want of an understanding ear”
[quote="Kimi"]" The most important things are the hardest to say.
They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out
But it' s more than that isn' t it?
The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away
And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you' ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried whilst you were saying it.
That’s the worst I think. When the secret stays locked away not for the want of a teller but for the want of an understanding ear”
They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out
But it' s more than that isn' t it?
The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away
And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you' ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried whilst you were saying it.
That’s the worst I think. When the secret stays locked away not for the want of a teller but for the want of an understanding ear”
X
-
Wind In My Hair
- Manager
![Manager]( "Manager")
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Tue, 19 Jul 2005 12:47 pm
that was beautiful, thanks global citizen. i've heard of her but never read her poetry... i like it.Global Citizen wrote:Still I Rise - by Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
and kimi - i've been looking for rudyard kipling's IF for a long time... thanks for posting it here.
The Sandpiper
not a poem but something a friend just sent that might speak to some of us:
The Sandpiper by Robert Peterson
She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me. She was building a sandcastle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.
"Hello," she said.
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not really caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach. Good-bye joy, I muttered to myself, hello pain, and turned to walk on. I was depressed, my life seemed completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six." "Hi, Wendy." She giggled. "You're funny".
In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me.
"Come again, Mr. P," she called. "We'll have another happy day."
After a few days of a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to myself, gathering up my coat.
The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.
"Hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know, you say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face. "Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.
Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?" "I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation."
She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd rather be alone today." She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and thought, My God, why was I saying this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday and the day before and-oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?" she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
"Hello," I said, "I'm Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mr Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke of you so much. I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please, accept my apologies."
"Not at all-she's a delightful child." I said, suddenly realizing that I meant what I had just said.
"Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my breath
"She loved this beach so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no. She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days.
But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." Her voice faltered, "She left something for you ... if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with "MR. P" printed in bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues-a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird.
Underneath was carefully printed: A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.
Tears welled up in my eyes and a heart that had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," I muttered over and over, and we wept together.
The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words --- one for each year of her life-that speak to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the color of sand-who taught me the gift of love.
NOTE: This is a true story sent out by Robert Peterson. It happened over 20 years ago and the incident changed his life forever. It serves as a reminder to all of us that we need to take time to enjoy living and life and each other. The price of hating other human beings is loving oneself less. Life is so complicated, the hustle and bustle of everyday traumas can make us lose focus about what is truly important or what is only a momentary setback or crisis. This week, be sure to give your loved ones an extra hug, and by all means, take a moment...even if it is only ten seconds, to stop and smell the roses. This comes from someone's heart, and is shared with many and now I share it with you.
Everything that happens to us happens for a reason. Never brush aside anyone as insignificant. Who knows what they can teach us?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Sandpiper by Robert Peterson
She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me. She was building a sandcastle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.
"Hello," she said.
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not really caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach. Good-bye joy, I muttered to myself, hello pain, and turned to walk on. I was depressed, my life seemed completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six." "Hi, Wendy." She giggled. "You're funny".
In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me.
"Come again, Mr. P," she called. "We'll have another happy day."
After a few days of a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to myself, gathering up my coat.
The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.
"Hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know, you say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face. "Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.
Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?" "I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation."
She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd rather be alone today." She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and thought, My God, why was I saying this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday and the day before and-oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?" she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
"Hello," I said, "I'm Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mr Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke of you so much. I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please, accept my apologies."
"Not at all-she's a delightful child." I said, suddenly realizing that I meant what I had just said.
"Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my breath
"She loved this beach so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no. She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days.
But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." Her voice faltered, "She left something for you ... if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with "MR. P" printed in bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues-a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird.
Underneath was carefully printed: A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.
Tears welled up in my eyes and a heart that had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," I muttered over and over, and we wept together.
The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words --- one for each year of her life-that speak to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the color of sand-who taught me the gift of love.
NOTE: This is a true story sent out by Robert Peterson. It happened over 20 years ago and the incident changed his life forever. It serves as a reminder to all of us that we need to take time to enjoy living and life and each other. The price of hating other human beings is loving oneself less. Life is so complicated, the hustle and bustle of everyday traumas can make us lose focus about what is truly important or what is only a momentary setback or crisis. This week, be sure to give your loved ones an extra hug, and by all means, take a moment...even if it is only ten seconds, to stop and smell the roses. This comes from someone's heart, and is shared with many and now I share it with you.
Everything that happens to us happens for a reason. Never brush aside anyone as insignificant. Who knows what they can teach us?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
no trees were hurt in the making of this post but a few electrons were terribly inconvenienced
-
Wind In My Hair
- Manager
![Manager]( "Manager")
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Tue, 19 Jul 2005 12:47 pm
Thanks for telling me!
Departure
Coventry Patmore (1823–1896)
IT was not like your great and gracious ways!
Do you, that have naught other to lament,
Never, my Love, repent
Of how, that July afternoon,
You went,
With sudden, unintelligible phrase,
And frighten’d eye,
Upon your journey of so many days
Without a single kiss, or a good-bye?
I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon;
And so we sate, within the low sun’s rays,
You whispering to me, for your voice was weak,
Your harrowing praise.
Well, it was well
To hear you such things speak,
And I could tell
What made your eyes a growing gloom of love,
As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove.
And it was like your great and gracious ways
To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear,
Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash
To let the laughter flash,
Whilst I drew near,
Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear.
But all at once to leave me at the last,
More at the wonder than the loss aghast,
With huddled, unintelligible phrase,
And frighten’d eye,
And go your journey of all days
With not one kiss, or a good-bye,
And the only loveless look the look with which you pass’d:
’Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.
Coventry Patmore (1823–1896)
IT was not like your great and gracious ways!
Do you, that have naught other to lament,
Never, my Love, repent
Of how, that July afternoon,
You went,
With sudden, unintelligible phrase,
And frighten’d eye,
Upon your journey of so many days
Without a single kiss, or a good-bye?
I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon;
And so we sate, within the low sun’s rays,
You whispering to me, for your voice was weak,
Your harrowing praise.
Well, it was well
To hear you such things speak,
And I could tell
What made your eyes a growing gloom of love,
As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove.
And it was like your great and gracious ways
To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear,
Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash
To let the laughter flash,
Whilst I drew near,
Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear.
But all at once to leave me at the last,
More at the wonder than the loss aghast,
With huddled, unintelligible phrase,
And frighten’d eye,
And go your journey of all days
With not one kiss, or a good-bye,
And the only loveless look the look with which you pass’d:
’Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.
WHEN I'M HURTING
It's easier for you to walk away, than it is for you to reach out to me.
It's easier for you to look away, than it is for you to see the depth of my despair.
It's easier for you to look through me, than it is for you to see "me."
It's easier for you to distance yourself, than it is for you to really care.
It's easier for you to hear, than it is for you to listen.
It's easier for you to judge, than it is for you to understand.
It's easier for you to label, than it is to get acquainted.
It's easier for you to bask in your joy, than it is for you to feel my pain.
It's easier for you to bewilder at my mysteries, than it is for you to probe deeply into the depths of my soul.
It's easier for me to look away, than it is to let you see the feelings betrayed through my eyes.
It's easier for me to cry, than it is for me to talk.
It's easier for me to walk alone, than it is to risk rejection.
It's easier for me to push you away, than it is for me to be held.
It's easier for me to distance myself, than it is to trust that you won´t hurt me.
It's easier for me to die, than it is for me to face life's challenges.
It's hard for me to smile when I am hurting.
It's hard for me to talk when you won't understand.
It's hard for me to reach out when I need help the most.
If only you'd really look at me and see who I am.
If only you cared enough to reach out when I push you away.
If only you'd hold me, without asking why.
If only you'd acknowledge the validity of my feelings.
But it's the easy roads that are most often taken.
And so I hurt alone.
WHEN I'M HURTING
It's easier for you to walk away, than it is for you to reach out to me.
It's easier for you to look away, than it is for you to see the depth of my despair.
It's easier for you to look through me, than it is for you to see "me."
It's easier for you to distance yourself, than it is for you to really care.
It's easier for you to hear, than it is for you to listen.
It's easier for you to judge, than it is for you to understand.
It's easier for you to label, than it is to get acquainted.
It's easier for you to bask in your joy, than it is for you to feel my pain.
It's easier for you to bewilder at my mysteries, than it is for you to probe deeply into the depths of my soul.
It's easier for me to look away, than it is to let you see the feelings betrayed through my eyes.
It's easier for me to cry, than it is for me to talk.
It's easier for me to walk alone, than it is to risk rejection.
It's easier for me to push you away, than it is for me to be held.
It's easier for me to distance myself, than it is to trust that you won´t hurt me.
It's easier for me to die, than it is for me to face life's challenges.
It's hard for me to smile when I am hurting.
It's hard for me to talk when you won't understand.
It's hard for me to reach out when I need help the most.
If only you'd really look at me and see who I am.
If only you cared enough to reach out when I push you away.
If only you'd hold me, without asking why.
If only you'd acknowledge the validity of my feelings.
But it's the easy roads that are most often taken.
And so I hurt alone.
--Jo A. Witt
It's easier for you to walk away, than it is for you to reach out to me.
It's easier for you to look away, than it is for you to see the depth of my despair.
It's easier for you to look through me, than it is for you to see "me."
It's easier for you to distance yourself, than it is for you to really care.
It's easier for you to hear, than it is for you to listen.
It's easier for you to judge, than it is for you to understand.
It's easier for you to label, than it is to get acquainted.
It's easier for you to bask in your joy, than it is for you to feel my pain.
It's easier for you to bewilder at my mysteries, than it is for you to probe deeply into the depths of my soul.
It's easier for me to look away, than it is to let you see the feelings betrayed through my eyes.
It's easier for me to cry, than it is for me to talk.
It's easier for me to walk alone, than it is to risk rejection.
It's easier for me to push you away, than it is for me to be held.
It's easier for me to distance myself, than it is to trust that you won´t hurt me.
It's easier for me to die, than it is for me to face life's challenges.
It's hard for me to smile when I am hurting.
It's hard for me to talk when you won't understand.
It's hard for me to reach out when I need help the most.
If only you'd really look at me and see who I am.
If only you cared enough to reach out when I push you away.
If only you'd hold me, without asking why.
If only you'd acknowledge the validity of my feelings.
But it's the easy roads that are most often taken.
And so I hurt alone.
WHEN I'M HURTING
It's easier for you to walk away, than it is for you to reach out to me.
It's easier for you to look away, than it is for you to see the depth of my despair.
It's easier for you to look through me, than it is for you to see "me."
It's easier for you to distance yourself, than it is for you to really care.
It's easier for you to hear, than it is for you to listen.
It's easier for you to judge, than it is for you to understand.
It's easier for you to label, than it is to get acquainted.
It's easier for you to bask in your joy, than it is for you to feel my pain.
It's easier for you to bewilder at my mysteries, than it is for you to probe deeply into the depths of my soul.
It's easier for me to look away, than it is to let you see the feelings betrayed through my eyes.
It's easier for me to cry, than it is for me to talk.
It's easier for me to walk alone, than it is to risk rejection.
It's easier for me to push you away, than it is for me to be held.
It's easier for me to distance myself, than it is to trust that you won´t hurt me.
It's easier for me to die, than it is for me to face life's challenges.
It's hard for me to smile when I am hurting.
It's hard for me to talk when you won't understand.
It's hard for me to reach out when I need help the most.
If only you'd really look at me and see who I am.
If only you cared enough to reach out when I push you away.
If only you'd hold me, without asking why.
If only you'd acknowledge the validity of my feelings.
But it's the easy roads that are most often taken.
And so I hurt alone.
--Jo A. Witt
Last edited by Kimi on Sat, 29 Oct 2005 1:21 pm, edited 1 time in total.
-
Wind In My Hair
- Manager
![Manager]( "Manager")
- Posts: 2242
- Joined: Tue, 19 Jul 2005 12:47 pm
-
Mary Hatch Bailey
- Manager
![Manager]( "Manager")
- Posts: 1511
- Joined: Thu, 06 Oct 2005 7:38 am
- Location: Bedford Falls
Not poetry, but certainly poetic and heartfelt.
It has been said that the Union and Confederate forces, amassed in America in 1861 to fight the Civil War were the most literate armies in history, including present day. Here's a fine example...
July 14, 1861
Camp Clark, Washington
My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days—perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more . . .
I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing—perfectly willing—to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt . . .
Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me unresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field.
The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us.
I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me—perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness . . .
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights . . . always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again . . .
Sullivan Ballou was killed a week later at the first Battle of Bull Run, July 21, 1861.
When he died, his wife was 24. She later moved to New Jersey to live out her life with her son, William, and never re-married. She died at age 80 in 1917.
Sullivan and Sarah Ballou are buried next to each other at Swan Point Cemetery in Providence, RI. There are no known living descendants.
It has been said that the Union and Confederate forces, amassed in America in 1861 to fight the Civil War were the most literate armies in history, including present day. Here's a fine example...
July 14, 1861
Camp Clark, Washington
My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days—perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more . . .
I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing—perfectly willing—to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt . . .
Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me unresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field.
The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us.
I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me—perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness . . .
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights . . . always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again . . .
Sullivan Ballou was killed a week later at the first Battle of Bull Run, July 21, 1861.
When he died, his wife was 24. She later moved to New Jersey to live out her life with her son, William, and never re-married. She died at age 80 in 1917.
Sullivan and Sarah Ballou are buried next to each other at Swan Point Cemetery in Providence, RI. There are no known living descendants.
-
- Similar Topics
- Replies
- Views
- Last post
-
-
today is the last day for topping up CPF/SRS and Jan 1 is the first day to top up again
by PNGMK » Thu, 31 Dec 2020 9:08 am » in Careers & Jobs in Singapore - 155 Replies
- 150136 Views
-
Last post by PNGMK
Thu, 02 Jan 2025 9:36 am
-
-
-
"14-day Stay at Home"; foreigner leaves Sg after 3 days?
by martincymru » Sat, 21 Mar 2020 2:20 pm » in Travel & Holidays - 4 Replies
- 5017 Views
-
Last post by martincymru
Tue, 24 Mar 2020 3:50 pm
-
-
- 19 Replies
- 10705 Views
-
Last post by zzm9980
Mon, 13 Apr 2020 11:22 am
-
- 0 Replies
- 2409 Views
-
Last post by abbby
Sun, 12 Apr 2020 4:46 pm
-
-
How's day 1 of opening the local economy?
by abbby » Fri, 19 Jun 2020 9:49 am » in Staying, Living in Singapore - 10 Replies
- 4008 Views
-
Last post by PNGMK
Mon, 22 Jun 2020 8:40 am
-
Who is online
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 6 guests