MGTutoring.com. A Rational Perspective on Education. » Art

“The Song of the Builder” by Edgar Guest

Administrator — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 04:46:23 +0000

I sink my piers to the solid rock,
And I send my steel to the sky,
And I pile up the granite, block by block
Full twenty stories high;
Nor wind nor weather shall wash away
The thing that I’ve builded, day by day.

Here’s something of mine that shall ever stand
Till another shall tear it down;
Here is the work of my brain and hand,
Towering above the town.
And the idlers gay in their smug content,
Have nothing to leave for a monument.

Here from my girders I look below
At the throngs which travel by,
For little that’s real will they leave to show
When it comes their time to die.
But I, when my time of life is through,
Will leave this building for men to view.

Oh, the work is hard and the days are long,
But hammers are tools for men,
And granite endures and steel is strong,
Outliving both brush and pen.
And ages after my voice is stilled,
Men shall know I lived by the things I build.

HT: Elizabeth M

“I Give Thanks” by Grace Fallow Norton

Administrator — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 23:37:15 +0000

There’s one that I once loved so much
I am no more the same.
I give thanks for that transforming touch.
I tell you not his name.

He has become a sign to me
For flowers and for fire.
For song he is a sign to me
And for the broken lyre.

And I have known him in a book
And never touched his hand.
And he is dead—I need not took
For him through his green land.

Heaven may not be. I have no faith,
But this desire I have—
To take my soul on my last breath,
To lift it like a wave,

And surge unto his star and say,
His friendship had been heaven;
And pray, for clouds that closed his day
May light at last be given!

And say, he shone at noon so bright
I learned to run and rejoice!
And beg him for one last delight—
The true sound of his voice.

There’s one that once moved me so much
I am no more the same;
And I pray I too, I too, may touch
Some heart with singing flame.

By Grace Fallow Norton from The New Poetry, An Anthology 1917 Ed. by Harriet Monroe

HT: Elizabeth M

“Who Loves the Rain?” by Frances Shaw, 1917

Administrator — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 18:00:46 +0000

Who loves the rain
And loves his home,
And looks on life with quiet eyes,

Him will I follow through the storm;

And at his hearth-fire keep me warm;
Nor hell nor heaven shall that soul surprise,
Who loves the rain,
And loves his home,

And looks on life with quiet eyes.

Frances Shaw, 1917

HT: Elizabeth M

“Still I Rise” by Maya Angelou

Administrator — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 22:50:58 +0000

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 back yard.

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.

HT: Elizabeth M

“Progress” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Administrator — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 15:50:59 +0000

Let there be many windows to your soul,
That all the glory of the universe
May beautify it. Not the narrow pane
Of one poor creed can catch the radiant rays
That shine from countless sources. Tear away
The blinds of superstition; let the light
Pour through fair windows broad as Truth itself
And high as God.

Why should the spirit peer
Through some priest-curtained orifice, and grope
Along dim corridors of doubt, when all
The splendor from unfathomed seas of space
Might bathe it with the golden waves of Love?
Sweep up the debris of decaying faiths;
Sweep down the cobwebs of worn-out beliefs,
And throw your soul wide open to the light
Of Reason and of Knowledge. Tune your ear
To all the wordless music of the stars
And to the voice of Nature, and your heart
Shall turn to truth and goodness as the plant
Turns to the sun. A thousand unseen hands
Reach down to help you to their peace-crowned heights.
And all the forces of the firmament
Shall fortify your strength. Be not afraid
To thrust aside half-truths and grasp the whole.

Poem available on Americanpoems.com.

HT: Elizabeth M

“We Belong” by Pat Benatar

Administrator — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 16:09:06 +0000

I’ve loved the song “We Belong” since seeing Allison Holker dance a solo to it years ago on So You Think You Can Dance , some episodes of which (of this season and last only) you can watch online.

Classical Piano 2

Administrator — Wed, 13 Jul 2011 02:17:12 +0000

‪Vladimir Horowitz plays Chopin’s “Raindrop” Prelude in D flat Major, Op.28 No.15‬.

Classical Piano‪

Administrator — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 04:47:29 +0000

‪Valentina Igoshina plays Chopin’s Prelude Op. 28, No. 15‬.

“Doors of Daring” by Henry Van Dyke

Administrator — Wed, 06 Jul 2011 15:25:14 +0000

The mountains that enfold the vale
With walls of granite, steep and high,
Invite the fearless foot to scale
Their stairway toward the sky.

The restless, deep, dividing sea
That flows and foams from shore to shore,
Calls to its sunburned chivalry,
“Push out, set sail, explore!”

And all the bars at which we fret,
That seem to prison and control,
Are but the doors of daring, set
Ajar before the soul.

Say not, “Too poor,” but freely give;
Sigh not, “Too weak,” but boldly try,
You never can begin to live
Until you dare to die.

Poem from Poemhunter.com.

HT: Elizabeth M

“A Father’s Wish” By Edgar Guest

Administrator — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 05:36:53 +0000

What do I want my boy to be?
Oft is the question asked of me,
And oft I ask it of myself–
What corner, niche or post or shelf
In the great hall of life would I
Select for him to occupy?
Statesman or writer, poet, sage
Or toiler for a weekly wage,
Artist or artisan? Oh, what
Is to become his future lot?
For him I do not dare to plan;
I only hope he’ll be a man.

I leave it free for him to choose
The tools of life which he shall use,
Brush, pen or chisel, lathe or wrench,
The desk of commerce or the bench,
And pray that when he makes his choice
In each day’s task he shall rejoice.
I know somewhere there is a need
For him to labor and succeed;
Somewhere, if he be clean and true,
Loyal and honest through and through,
He shall be fit for any clan,
And so I hope he’ll be a man.

I would not build my hope or ask
That he shall do some certain task,
Or bend his will to suit my own;
He shall select his post alone.
Life needs a thousand kinds of men,
Toilers and masters of the pen,
Doctors, mechanics, sturdy hands
To do the work which it commands,
And wheresoe’er he’s pleased to go,
Honor and triumph he may know.
Therefore I must do all I can
To teach my boy to be a man.

Happy Father’s Day!!!

HT: Elizabeth M

MGTutoring.com. A Rational Perspective on Education. » Art

“The Song of the Builder” by Edgar Guest

I sink my piers to the solid rock, And I send my steel to the sky, And I pile up the granite, block by block Full twenty stories high; Nor wind nor weather shall wash away The thing that I’ve builded, day by day.

Oh, the work is hard and the days are long, But hammers are tools for men, And granite endures and steel is strong, Outliving both brush and pen. And ages after my voice is stilled, Men shall know I lived by the things I build.

“I Give Thanks” by Grace Fallow Norton

There’s one that I once loved so much I am no more the same. I give thanks for that transforming touch. I tell you not his name.

He has become a sign to me For flowers and for fire. For song he is a sign to me And for the broken lyre.

And I have known him in a book And never touched his hand. And he is dead—I need not took For him through his green land.

Heaven may not be. I have no faith, But this desire I have— To take my soul on my last breath, To lift it like a wave,

And surge unto his star and say, His friendship had been heaven; And pray, for clouds that closed his day May light at last be given!

And say, he shone at noon so bright I learned to run and rejoice! And beg him for one last delight— The true sound of his voice.

There’s one that once moved me so much I am no more the same; And I pray I too, I too, may touch Some heart with singing flame.

“Who Loves the Rain?” by Frances Shaw, 1917

Who loves the rain And loves his home, And looks on life with quiet eyes,

Him will I follow through the storm;

And at his hearth-fire keep me warm; Nor hell nor heaven shall that soul surprise, Who loves the rain, And loves his home,

And looks on life with quiet eyes.

Frances Shaw, 1917

“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 back yard.

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?

“Progress” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

“We Belong” by Pat Benatar

Classical Piano 2

Classical Piano‪

“Doors of Daring” by Henry Van Dyke

The mountains that enfold the vale With walls of granite, steep and high, Invite the fearless foot to scale Their stairway toward the sky.

The restless, deep, dividing sea That flows and foams from shore to shore, Calls to its sunburned chivalry, “Push out, set sail, explore!”

And all the bars at which we fret, That seem to prison and control, Are but the doors of daring, set Ajar before the soul.

Say not, “Too poor,” but freely give; Sigh not, “Too weak,” but boldly try, You never can begin to live Until you dare to die.

“A Father’s Wish” By Edgar Guest

I sink my piers to the solid rock,
And I send my steel to the sky,
And I pile up the granite, block by block
Full twenty stories high;
Nor wind nor weather shall wash away
The thing that I’ve builded, day by day.

Oh, the work is hard and the days are long,
But hammers are tools for men,
And granite endures and steel is strong,
Outliving both brush and pen.
And ages after my voice is stilled,
Men shall know I lived by the things I build.

There’s one that I once loved so much
I am no more the same.
I give thanks for that transforming touch.
I tell you not his name.

He has become a sign to me
For flowers and for fire.
For song he is a sign to me
And for the broken lyre.

And I have known him in a book
And never touched his hand.
And he is dead—I need not took
For him through his green land.

Heaven may not be. I have no faith,
But this desire I have—
To take my soul on my last breath,
To lift it like a wave,

And surge unto his star and say,
His friendship had been heaven;
And pray, for clouds that closed his day
May light at last be given!

And say, he shone at noon so bright
I learned to run and rejoice!
And beg him for one last delight—
The true sound of his voice.

There’s one that once moved me so much
I am no more the same;
And I pray I too, I too, may touch
Some heart with singing flame.

Who loves the rain
And loves his home,
And looks on life with quiet eyes,

And at his hearth-fire keep me warm;
Nor hell nor heaven shall that soul surprise,
Who loves the rain,
And loves his home,

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 back yard.

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?

The mountains that enfold the vale
With walls of granite, steep and high,
Invite the fearless foot to scale
Their stairway toward the sky.

The restless, deep, dividing sea
That flows and foams from shore to shore,
Calls to its sunburned chivalry,
“Push out, set sail, explore!”

And all the bars at which we fret,
That seem to prison and control,
Are but the doors of daring, set
Ajar before the soul.

Say not, “Too poor,” but freely give;
Sigh not, “Too weak,” but boldly try,
You never can begin to live
Until you dare to die.