What's The Use?

Oh! What is living but moving about,
Buoyed up with hope and crushed down by doubt?
What is the draught of breath we harp on as life?
Naught but a sip of peace, a cup full of strife -
        What's the use?

What is the place we call our home, "sweet home"?
Naught but a span of space where one may roam:
Night's pitchy corner; a hard crust of bread;
Cot for your feeble limbs, pillow your head -
        What's the use?

Now, what is loving but acting a fool?
And what is quitting? - Producing a rule:
Break short the flight of Dan Cupid's swift dart,
Aimed at the core of an innocent heart!
        What's the use?

Say, what is marrying but getting in trouble?
Trifling 'way joy while your sorrow is double?
What, then, is your state my friend, after you've wed?
Naught but a vial of wrath poured upon your head!
        What's the use?

Ah! what is batching but living a man;
Sporting and sleeping - just running his plan?
Come when he's ready, and go when he please -
Brain's full of joy, his heart is at ease -
        See, that's the use!

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

Behind The Bars

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

A Song Of Thanks

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

Not Yet A Poet

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

Lula Johnson's Song

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

English

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What's The Use

What's the use o' folks a-frownin'
When the way's a little rough?
Frowns lay out the road fur smilin'
You'll be wrinkled soon enough.
What's the use?

What's the use o' folks a-sighin'?
It's an awful waste o' breath,
An' a body can't stand wastin'
What he needs so bad in death.
What's the use?

What's the use o' even weepin'?
Might as well go long an' smile.
Life, our longest, strongest arrow,
Only lasts a little while.
What's the use?

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Personal Talk

I

I am not One who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk.
Of friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright,
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,
These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
Better than such discourse doth silence long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desire;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.

II

"Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see,
And with a living pleasure we describe;
And fits of sprightly malice do...

William Wordsworth

Life.

"What is life?" I asked a lad,
As on with joyful bound,
He went to join the merry troop,
Upon the cricket ground.

He paus'd at once with pleasant look,
This bright-ey'd, laughing boy,
"Why, life," said he, "is sport and mirth;
With me 'tis mostly joy.

"The tasks which I receive at school,
I feel to be unkind;
But when I get my ball and bat,
I drive them from my mind.

"With other boys I run and shout,
I throw and catch the ball,
Oh, life is a right jolly thing,
To take it all in all."

"And what is life?" I asked a maid,
Who trod, as if on air,
So lightly she did trip along,
So bright she look'd, and fair.

The maiden stopp'd her graceful steps,
And to my words replied,
"Oh, life's a lovely dream," she s...

Thomas Frederick Young

Of Hidden Uses. from Proverbial Philosophy

The sea-wort floating on the waves, or rolled up high along the shore,
Ye counted useless and vile, heaping on it names of contempt:
Yet hath it gloriously triumphed, and man been humbled in his ignorance,
For health is in the fresliness of its savour, and it cumbereth the beach with wealth;
Comforting the tossings of pain with its violet tinctured essence,
And by its humbler ashes enriching many proud.
Be this, then, a lesson to thy soul, that thou reckon nothing wortliless,
Because thou heedest not its use, nor knowest the virtues thereof.
And herein, as thou walkest by the sea, shall weeds be a    type and an earnest
Of the stored and uncounted riches lying hid in all creatures of God:
There be flowers making glad the desert, and roots fattening the soil,
And jewels in the secret d...

Martin Farquhar Tupper

What is Life?

And what is Life?--An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still repeated dream;
Its length?--A minute's pause, a moment's thought;
And happiness?-A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.

What are vain Hopes?--The puffing gale of morn,
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,
And robs each floweret of its gem,--and dies;
A cobweb hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.

And thou, O Trouble?--Nothing can suppose,
(And sure the power of wisdom only knows,)
What need requireth thee:
So free and liberal as thy bounty flows,
Some necessary cause must surely be;
But disappointments, pains, and every woe
Devoted wretches feel,
The ...

John Clare

A Paraneaticall Or Advice Verse To His Friend, Mr John Wicks

Is this a life, to break thy sleep,
To rise as soon as day doth peep?
To tire thy patient ox or ass
By noon, and let thy good days pass,
Not knowing this, that Jove decrees
Some mirth, t' adulce man's miseries?
No; 'tis a life to have thine oil
Without extortion from thy soil;
Thy faithful fields to yield thee grain,
Although with some, yet little pain;
To have thy mind, and nuptial bed,
With fears and cares uncumbered
A pleasing wife, that by thy side
Lies softly panting like a bride;
This is to live, and to endear
Those minutes Time has lent us here.
Then, while fates suffer, live thou free,
As is that air that circles thee;
And crown thy temples too; and let
Thy servant, not thy own self, sweat,
To strut thy barns with sheaves of wheat.<...

Robert Herrick