Appreciate your kind words Dave

'Believe each day that has dawned is your last,
and some hour for which you haven’t been expecting
will prove lovely.'

Why does your anger
Destroy me
I recoil from it
Like a blow
Because I hurt
And feel wasted
All the time
You didn't let me
Love you.

The Bridge Builder
― Will Allen Dromgoole

“An old man, going a lone highway,
Came, at the evening, cold and gray,
To a chasm, vast, and deep, and wide,
Through which was flowing a sullen tide.

The old man crossed in the twilight dim;
The sullen stream had no fear for him;
But he turned, when safe on the other side,
And built a bridge to span the tide.

"Old man," said a fellow pilgrim, near,
"You are wasting strength with building here;
Your journey will end with the ending day;
You never again will pass this way;
You've crossed the chasm, deep and wide-
Why build you this bridge at the evening tide?"

The builder lifted his old gray head:
"Good friend, in the path I have come," he said,
"There followeth after me today,
A youth, whose feet must pass this way.

This chasm, that has been naught to me,
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building this bridge for him.”

There's something there
That cannot be denied
And yet in truth
Behind our dreams we hide

Perhaps what seems to be
Is not
When face to face we look
Beyond our lot

Envision then what we would
Really see
There's something good we've got
Or haven't we.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cAu3a7CMA84

(Dave - noted the small text size. Care to explain?)

Tonight over Malham.

Some days are fragile it's true. We need to constantly
remind ourselves that each day is a gift.
It's just that sometimes we forget to untie the ribbons. ;)

How did it get so late so soon?
It's night before it's afternoon.
December is here before it's June.
My goodness how the time has flewn.
How did it get so late so soon?
~Dr. Seuss

SONNET IX. TO THE RIVER LODON

Ah! what a weary race my feet have run
Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned,
And thought my way was all thro' fairy ground,
Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun;
Where first my muse to lisp her notes begun!
While pensive Memory traces back the round,
Which fills the varied interval between;
Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.
Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure
No more return, to cheer my evening road!
Yet still one joy remains, that, not obscure,
Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed,
From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature;
Nor with the muse's laurel unbestowed.

Thomas Warton