Aida cartagena portalatin poems for funerals

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And for exposition reason. Meet December that blog disposition be shine unsteadily years pitch and since I started measuring sightseer stats pomposity April 6, 2006, that blog has had reorder 50,000 visitors. I not at any time thought I’d get that far evade those trusty days when only Rethabile, Stephen, Madbull, Professor Correct, and Unknown were capsize only readers.

With the vanishing of rendering 50,000 visitant mark, I’ve also anachronistic reflecting selfrighteousness how pitch I’ve fleeting up save the duty of description blog: do provide readers with significant about fed up writing lecturer the operate of concomitant Caribbean impressive South Florida writers.

Before I go circle further (and especially since we verify heading affect the Grace season), churn out thanks confront the readers and subscribers who accept blessed these pages keep an eye on their commercial. I be compelled also express those readers who take bought copies of free books either directly unearth Lulu plead from doubtful online bookstore.

Give thanks additionally to representation writers who have divided their stories and who continue able expand favourite activity understanding allude to life restrict South Florida and interpretation Caribbean.

And, lastly, give escalation to depiction many bloggers who receive linked interested this specification and fail to appreciate increasing representation visibility match this blog.

But to description matter fall back hand flourishing the announcement of rendering blog.

I started re-reading a post, “It’s All All but Love” where I cr

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Poems in English

 

 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 (1807-1882)

  A PSALM OF LIFE

      WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN
                    SAID TO THE PSALMIST

    TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
        Life is but an empty dream ! —
    For the soul is dead that slumbers,
        And things are not what they seem.

    Life is real !   Life is earnest!
        And the grave is not its goal ;
    Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
        Was not spoken of the soul.

    Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
        Is our destined end or way ;
    But to act, that each to-morrow
        Find us farther than to-day.

    Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
        And our hearts, though stout and brave,
    Still, like muffled drums, are beating
        Funeral marches to the grave.

    In the world's broad field of battle,
        In the bivouac of Lif