Edmund Vance Cooke

But maybe prayer is a road to rise,
A mountain path leading toward the skies
To assist read more

But maybe prayer is a road to rise,
A mountain path leading toward the skies
To assist the spirit who truly tries.
But it isn't a shibboleth, creed, nor code,
It isn't a pack-horse to carry your load,
It isn't a wagon, it's only a road.
And perhaps the reward of the spirit who tries
Is not the goal, but the exercise!

"The hand that rocks the cradle"--but there is no such hand.
It is bad to rock the baby, they read more

"The hand that rocks the cradle"--but there is no such hand.
It is bad to rock the baby, they would have us understand;
So the cradle's but a relic of the former foolish days,
When mothers reared their children in unscientific ways;
When they jounced them and they bounced them, those poor dwarfs
of long ago--
The Washingtons and Jeffersons, you know.

I have seen men march to the wars, and then
I have watched their homeward tread,
And read more

I have seen men march to the wars, and then
I have watched their homeward tread,
And they brought back bodies of living men,
But their eyes were fold and dead.
So, Buddy no matter what else the fame,
No matter what else the prize,
I want you to come back thru The Flame
With the boy-look still in your eyes!

So you tell yourself you are pretty find clay
To have tricked temptation and turned it away,
read more

So you tell yourself you are pretty find clay
To have tricked temptation and turned it away,
But wait, my friend, for a different day;
Wait till you want to want to!

It is not the weight of jewel or plate,
Or the fondle of silk or fur;
"Tis read more

It is not the weight of jewel or plate,
Or the fondle of silk or fur;
"Tis the spirit in which the gift is rich,
As the gifts of the Wise Ones were,
And we are not told whose gift was gold,
Or whose was the gift of myrrh.