O Lord Jesus Christ, who hast created and redeemed me, and hast brought me into that which now I am; thou knowest what thou wouldst do with me; do with me according to thy will, for thy tender mercy's sake. Amen.
Let the light of truth, and the help of grace, be vital principles of action in us; that we may, in the time of life, attain the ends for which we live; and that our religion, which begins in knowledge, may proceed in action, settle in temper, and end in happiness: that we may make it the work and business of our lives, to reconcile the temper of our spirits to the rule of righteousness; and to incorporate the principles of religion into the complexion of our minds; that what we attribute to God, as his moral excellencies and perfections; we may propose to our selves, as matter of practice and imitation; (s)o that what is our best employment in this world, and will be our only employment in the next, may be our free choice, and our transcendent pleasure. Amen.
O Lord and King, who art full of compassion, God of the spirits of all flesh, in whose hand are the souls of the living and the dead, receive, we beseech thee, in thy great loving-kindness the soul of our brother who hath been gathered unto his people. Have mercy upon him; pardon all his transgressions; for there is none righteous upon the earth, who doeth only good, and sinneth not. Remember unto him the righteousness which he wrought, and let his reward be with him, and his recompense before him. Shelter his soul in the shadow of thy wings. Make known to him the path of life: in thy presence is fulness [sic] of joy; at thy right hand, bliss for evermore.
O Lord, who healest the broken-hearted and bindest up their wounds, grant thy consolation unto the mourners. Strengthen and support them in the day of their grief and sorrow; and remember them for a long and good life. Put into their hearts the fear and love of thee, that they may serve thee with a perfect heart; and let their latter end be peace. Amen.
Lone and forgotten through a long sleeping, in the heart of age a child woke weeping. No invisible mother was nigh him there laughing and nodding from earth and air. No elfin comrades came at his call and the earth and the air were blank as a wall. The darkness thickened upon him creeping, in the heart of age a child lay weeping.
Mr Death is redneck-charming. His wife is what my grandmother would call "mousy." ... Mrs Death looks like the checker at the Food Fair. She always feels a little chill so she wears a blue button-up sweater. She doesn't smile much because she has crooked teeth. .... Mr Death looks like your mechanic. He carries a wallet with a silver chain running from his hip pocket to a belt loop. He looks younger than Mrs. Death. He has good teeth and knows it, so he smiles a lot. He's never met a stranger. He has the most beautiful eyes, a blue you could swim in. When he's talking to you he touches you a lot. He wants everybody to like him.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound; And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white; Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done. Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly; And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn Would scarcely know that we were gone.
From Sedulia: Owen Roe lived at the worst time in history for an Irish poet, when the Penal Laws were killing the ancient way of life and when Catholics had no legal way to make a professional living. He was a brilliant, red-haired, hard-living brawler, called "Owen of the Sweet Mouth" (Eoghan an Bhéil Bhinn) and in Munster I have myself still met Irish speakers who passed down the folk memory of his great charm.
Do threascair an saol is shéid an ghaoth mar smál Alastrann, Caesar, 's an méid sin a bhí 'na bpáirt; tá an Teamhair 'na féar, is féach an Traoi mar tá, is na Sasanaigh féin do b'fhéidir go bhfaighidís bás!
Like many famous writers for children, Walter de la Mare had an idyllic early childhood that was cut short too soon....Later he would write that "those happy, unhappy far-away days seem like mere glimpses of a dragon-fly shimmering and darting."
For the rest of his life de la Mare would try to recapture the dragonfly. He would also continue to believe that it was better to be a child than an adult. At thirty-one he wrote to a friend that growing up "is a fiasco I am more convinced every day." When he was seventy-five, his biographer, Theresa Whistler (then twenty-one), "protested against this wholesale dismissal of adult life." De la Mare, who had known her since birth, insisted that he was right. "Take your own case," he told her. "Look how diluted you are!"