‘My Vocation’ by Toru Dutt

A waif on this earth,
Sick, ugly and small,
Contemned from my birth
And rejected by all,
From my lips broke
Where – oh where shall I fly?
Who comfort will bring?
Sing, – said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.

Life struck me with fright –
Full of chances and pain,
So I hugged with delight
The drudge’s hard chain;
One must eat, – yet I die,
Like a bird with clipped wing,
Sing – said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.

Love cheered for a while
My morn with his ray,
But like a ripple or smile
My youth passed away.
Now near Beauty I sigh,
But fled is the spring!
Sing – said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.

All men have a task,
And to sing is my lot –
No meed from men I ask
But one kindly thought.
My vocation is high –
‘Mid the glasses that ring,
Still – still comes that reply,
Chant poor little thing.

The Retreat, By: Henry Vaughan (1622?-1695)

               Happy those early days, when I

               Shin’d in my angel-infancy!

               Before I understood this place

               Appointed for my second race,

               Or taught my soul to fancy ought

               But a white, celestial thought;

               When yet I had not walk’d above

               A mile or two from my first love,

               And looking back (at that short space)

             Could see a glimpse of his bright face;

             When on some gilded cloud or flow’r

             My gazing soul would dwell an hour,

             And in those weaker glories spy

             Some shadows of eternity;

             Before I taught my tongue to wound

             My conscience with a sinful sound,

             Or had the black art to dispense,

             A sev’ral sin to ev’ry sense,

             But felt through all this fleshly dress

             Bright shoots of everlastingness.

                  O how I long to travel back,

             And tread again that ancient track!

             That I might once more reach that plain,

             Where first I left my glorious train,

             From whence th’ enlighten’d spirit sees

             That shady city of palm trees.

             But ah! my soul with too much stay

             Is drunk, and staggers in the way.

             Some men a forward motion love,

             But I by backward steps would move;

             And when this dust falls to the urn,

             In that state I came, return.

My Kingdom – By: Louisa May Alcott

A little kingdom I possess
where thoughts and feelings dwell,
And very hard I find the task
of governing it well;
For passion tempts and troubles me,
A wayward will misleads,
And selfishness its shadow casts
On all my words and deeds.

How can I learn to rule myself,
to be the child I should,
Honest and brave, nor ever tire
Of trying to be good?
How can I keep a sunny soul
To shine along life’s way?
How can I tune my little heart
To sweetly sing all day?

Dear Father, help me with the love
that casteth out my fear;
Teach me to lean on thee, and feel
That thou art very near,
That no temptation is unseen
No childish grief too small,
Since thou, with patience infinite,
Doth soothe and comfort all.

I do not ask for any crown
But that which all may win
Nor seek to conquer any world
Except the one within.
Be thou my guide until I find,
Led by a tender hand,
Thy happy kingdom in myself
And dare to take command.

Let me go where’er I will. By: Ralph Waldo Emerson

Let me go where’er I will,

     I hear a sky-born music still:

     It sounds from all things old,

       It sounds from all things young,

     From all that’s fair, from all that’s foul,

       Peals out a cheerful song.

     It is not only in the rose,

       It is not only in the bird,

     Not only where the rainbow glows,

       Nor in the song of woman heard,

     But in the darkest, meanest things

     There alway, alway something sings.

     ‘Tis not in the high stars alone,

       Nor in the cup of budding flowers,

     Nor in the redbreast’s mellow tone,

       Nor in the bow that smiles in showers,

     But in the mud and scum of things

     There alway, alway something sings.

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How far can a person go to fulfill the dreams of someone else? Find out in the pages of Dream’s Sake, a general fiction novel by Jyoti Arora. For more information and free preview of first chapter, please visit: http://www.jyotiarora.com/dream-s-sake

Abou Ben Adhem, By: Leigh Hunt

    Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

    Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

    And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

    Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

    An Angel writing in a book of gold:

*

    Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

    And to the Presence in the room he said,

    “What writest thou?” The Vision raised its head,

    And with a look made of all sweet accord

    Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”

*

    “And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”

    Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,

    But cheerily still; and said, “I pray thee, then,

    Write me as one who loves his fellow men.”

*

    The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

    It came again with a great wakening light,

    And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,

    And, lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest!

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How far can a person go to fulfill the dreams of someone else? Find out in the pages of Dream’s Sake, a general fiction novel by Jyoti Arora. For more information and free preview of first chapter, please visit: http://www.jyotiarora.com/dream-s-sake