A Wish Rebuked.

If one could have a hundred years to live,
After the settlement of youth's unrest,
A hundred years of vigorous life to give
To the pursuit of what he counted best,
A hundred summers, autumns, winters, springs,
To train and use the forces of his mind,
He might fulfil his fond imaginings,
And lift himself and benefit his kind.

O faint of heart, to whom this life appears
Too short for thy ambitious projects, He
Who plied His task in weakness and in tears
Along the countrysides of Galilee,
And blest the world for these two thousand years,
Did His incomparable work in three.

W. M. MacKeracher

W. M. MacKeracher was a poet known for his contributions to Canadian literature during the early 20th century. His works often focused on themes of nature, human emotion, and the simplicity of rural life. Though not as widely known as some of his contemporaries, MacKeracher's poetry has been appreciated for its lyrical quality and depth. Much of his work was published in regional journals and anthologies, capturing the essence of Canadian landscapes and the human experience within them. His exact birth and death dates remain obscure.

W. M. MacKeracher

The Ideal Preacher.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

In Warehouse And Office.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Montreal.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Reflections On A Tree In Autumn.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

English

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A Wish.

When my time comes to quit this pleasing scene,
And drop from out the busy life of men;
When I shall cease to be where I have been
So willingly, and ne'er may be again;
When my abandoned tabernacle's dust
With dust is laid, and I am counted dead;
Ere I am quite forgotten, as I must
Be in a little while, let this be said:

He loved this good God's world, the night and day,
Men, women, children (these he loved the best);
Pictures and books he loved, and work and play,
Music and silence, soberness and jest;
His mind was open, and his heart was gay;
Green be his grave, and peaceful be his rest!

W. M. MacKeracher

His Wish To God.

I would to God that mine old age might have
Before my last, but here a living grave,
Some one poor almshouse; there to lie, or stir
Ghostlike, as in my meaner sepulchre;
A little piggin and a pipkin by,
To hold things fitting my necessity,
Which rightly used, both in their time and place,
Might me excite to fore and after-grace.
Thy Cross, my Christ, fix'd 'fore mine eyes should be,
Not to adore that, but to worship Thee.
So, here the remnant of my days I'd spend,
Reading Thy Bible, and my Book; so end.

Robert Herrick

The Old Cumberland Beggar

I saw an aged Beggar in my walk;
And he was seated, by the highway side,
On a low structure of rude masonry
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road
May thence remount at ease. The aged Man
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
That overlays the pile; and, from a bag
All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one;
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look
Of idle computation. In the sun,
Upon the second step of that small pile,
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,
He sat, and ate his food in solitude:
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,
That, still attempting to prevent the waste,
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers

William Wordsworth

His Wish To God

I would to God, that mine old age might have
Before my last, but here a living grave;
Some one poor almshouse, there to lie, or stir,
Ghost-like, as in my meaner sepulchre;
A little piggin, and a pipkin by,
To hold things fitting my necessity,
Which, rightly us'd, both in their time and place,
Might me excite to fore, and after, grace.
Thy cross, my Christ, fix'd 'fore mine eyes should be,
Not to adore that, but to worship Thee.
So here the remnant of my days I'd spend,
Reading Thy bible, and my book; so end.

Robert Herrick

How Many A Man!

How many a man of those I see around
Has cherished fair ideals in his youth,
And heard the spirit's call, and stood spellbound
Before the shrine of Beauty or of Truth,
And lived to see his fair ideals fade,
And feel a numbness creep upon his soul,
And sadly know himself no longer swayed
By rigorous Truth or Beauty's sweet control!

For some, alas! life's thread is almost spun;
Few, few and poor, the fibres that remain;
But yet, while life lasts, something may be done
To make the heavenly vision not in vain;
Yet, even yet, some triumph may be won,
Yea, loss itself be turned to precious gain.

W. M. MacKeracher

A Prayer For The Past

    All sights and sounds of day and year,
    All groups and forms, each leaf and gem,
    Are thine, O God, nor will I fear
    To talk to thee of them.

        Too great thy heart is to despise,
    Whose day girds centuries about;
    From things which we name small, thine eyes
    See great things looking out.

        Therefore the prayerful song I sing
    May come to thee in ordered words:
    Though lowly born, it needs not cling
    In terror to its chords.

        I think that nothing made is lost;
    That not a moon has ever shone,
    That not a cloud my eyes hath crossed
    But to my soul is gone.

        That all the lost years garnered lie
    In this thy casket, my dim soul;
    And thou wilt, once, th...

George MacDonald