The End

Though man through life so swiftly wends,
    And o'er its journey runs his race;
Though rough, or smooth, or 'round the bends,
    In distance putting fleetest friend:
Alas! there comes a halting place,
    A place of rest - the journey's end!

Edward Smyth Jones

Edward Smyth Jones was an African American poet born in Natchez, Mississippi, best known for his poem "A Song of Thanks". He faced significant challenges throughout his life, including racial prejudice and economic hardship. His work often reflects his struggles and aspirations, particularly focusing on themes of resilience, hope, and gratitude. Despite his relatively obscure status in literary circles, Jones's contributions are recognized for their emotional depth and historical significance. He passed away in 1968.

Edward Smyth Jones

Harvard Square

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

Lula Johnson's Song

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

Floating With The Gale

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

English

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The Coming Of The End

How it came to an end!
The meeting afar from the crowd,
And the love-looks and laughters unpenned,
The parting when much was avowed,
How it came to an end!

It came to an end;
Yes, the outgazing over the stream,
With the sun on each serpentine bend,
Or, later, the luring moon-gleam;
It came to an end.

It came to an end,
The housebuilding, furnishing, planting,
As if there were ages to spend
In welcoming, feasting, and jaunting;
It came to an end.

It came to an end,
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("It always goes on," said a friend,
"Just the same in bright weathers or bleak;")
But it came to an end.

"HOW will come to an end
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The End

Tell me, strange heart, so mysteriously beating -
    Unto what end?
Body and soul so mysteriously meeting,
    Strange friend and friend;
Hand clasped in hand so mysteriously faring,
Say what and why all this dreaming and daring,
    This sowing and reaping and laughing and weeping,
    That ends but in sleeping -
    Only one meaning, only - the End.

Ah! all the love, the gold glory, the singing, -
    Unto what end?
Flowers of April immortally springing,
    Face of one's friend,
Stars of the morning and moon in her quarters,
Shining of suns and running of waters,
    Growing and blowing and snowing and flowing, -
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Richard Le Gallienne

The End

    After the blast of lightning from the east,
    The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot throne,
    After the drums of time have rolled and ceased
    And from the bronze west long retreat is blown,

    Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truth
    All death will he annul, all tears assuage?
    Or fill these void veins full again with youth
    And wash with an immortal water age?

    When I do ask white Age, he saith not so,--
    "My head hangs weighed with snow."
    And when I hearken to the Earth she saith
    My fiery heart sinks aching. It is death.
    Mine ancient scars shall not be glorified
    Nor my titanic tears the seas be dried."

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen

The Road That Has No End

Hast ever tramped along the road
That has no end?
The far brown winding road, your one
Fast friend
A tattered weather-beaten swag,
A silent mate
To send
His dumb warm comfort to the heart,
A fount where dreams ascend.

Theres wondrous freedom on the road
That has no end;
A mans heart glows, his spirit leaps
To blend
Its joy of life with fierce winds gust
Upon his face:
To lend
Its cry to Natures tumult, full
And shrill, as twilight shades descend.

The flowers bloom along the road
That has no end
Cool breezes blow, the gum trees sway
And bend;
The wild doves woo, and softly coo
Their soothing notes,
And mend
Hearts throbbing pain to sweet content,
And peace lights on the minds sad trend

Joseph Burrows

Friends. . . Old Friends

Friends . . . old friends . . .
One sees how it ends.
A woman looks
Or a man tells lies,
And the pleasant brooks
And the quiet skies,
Ruined with brawling
And caterwauling,
Enchant no more
As they did before.
And so it ends
With friends.

Friends . . . old friends . . .
And what if it ends?
Shall we dare to shirk
What we live to learn?
It has done its work,
It has served its turn;
And, forgive and forget
Or hanker and fret,
We can be no more
As we were before.
When it ends, it ends
With friends.

Friends . . . old friends . . .
So it breaks, so it ends.
There let it rest!
It has fought and won,
And is still the best
That either has done.
Each as he stands
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The Last Survivor

Yes! the vacant chairs tell sadly we are going, going fast,
And the thought comes strangely o'er me, who will live to be the last?
When the twentieth century's sunbeams climb the far-off eastern hill,
With his ninety winters burdened, will he greet the morning still?

Will he stand with Harvard's nurslings when they hear their mother's call
And the old and young are gathered in the many alcoved hall?
Will he answer to the summons when they range themselves in line
And the young mustachioed marshal calls out "Class of '29 "?

Methinks I see the column as its lengthened ranks appear
In the sunshine of the morrow of the nineteen hundredth year;
Through the yard 't is creeping, winding, by the walls of dusky red, -
What shape is that which totters at the long procession's head?<...

Oliver Wendell Holmes