Marion Lightbourn diary

Old Epitaph Why do I live in life a thrall Of joy and all bereft; Her wings were grown and so she's flown. Cause I had none I'm left.

Like to a plank of driftwood Tossed on the watery main Another plank encounters Meets, touches, parts again; So tossed and drifting ever On life's unresting sea Men meet & greet and sever Parting eternally.

The first sure syptom of a mind in health Is rest of heart and pleasure, felt at home.

Sleep. Browning. Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the psalmists' music deep Now tell me if there any is For gift or grace surpassing this "He giveth His beloved sleep"?

Extract from " The Life of Christ" by Canon Farrar. Our Blessed Lord did not mean to reprobate any amount of work undertaken in His service, but only the spirit of fret & fuss - the want of all repose and calm - the ostentation of superfluous hospitality - in [doing?] it; & still more that tendency to reprobate & interfere with others, which is so often seen in Christians who are as anxious as Martha, but have none of Mary's holy trustfulness & perfect calm.

Maidenhood. Longfellow. Maiden! with the meek brown eyes In whose orbs a shadow lies. Like the dusk in evening skies.

Thou whose looks outshine the sun Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run!

Standing with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet,

Gazing with a timid glance On the brooklet's swift advance expanse On the river's broad expanse.

Deep and still that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream.

Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian?

Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove with startled eye, Sees the falcon's shadow fly?

Hearst thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive us more, Deafened by the cataracts roar?

O thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands - Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares!

Like the swell of some swelt tune, Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June.

^slumbered, Childhood is the bough, where, Birds and blossoms many numbered Age, that bough with snows encumbered.

Gather, then, each flower that gows, When the young heart overflows, To enbalm that tint of snows.

Bear a lily in thy hand Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand.

Bear through sorrow wrong & ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth. On thy lips the smile of truth.

O, that dew like balm shall steal Into wounds, that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;