When I was in my younger days,
I weighed a few pounds less,
I needn’t hold my tummy in
To wear a belted dress.

But now that I am older,
I’ve set my body free;
There’s comfort of elastic
Where once my waist would be.

Inventor of those high-heeled shoes
My feet have not forgiven;
I have to wear a nine now,
But used to wear a seven.

And how about those pantyhose–
They’re sized by weight, you see,
So how come when I put them on,
The crotch is at my knee?

I need to wear these glasses
As the prints been getting smaller,
And it wasn’t very long ago,
I know that I was taller!

Though my hair has turned to gray
And my skin no longer fits,
On the inside, I’m the same old me
It’s the outside that’s changed a bit…..

There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields -
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!

This poem was written/submitted by Emily Dickinson.

Until I learned to trust the Lord,
I never learned to pray;
And never learned to fully trust,
Til sorrow came my way.

Until I felt my weakness,
His strength I never knew,
Nor dreamed, til I was stricken,
that He could see me through.

He who drinks deepest sorrow
Drinks deepest too of grace,
od sends the storm so He, himself,

Can be our resting place.
His heart, who seeks our deepest good,
Knows well when things annoy;
We would not yearn for Heaven
If earth held only joy!

Some one started the whole day wrong–
Was it you?
Some one robbed the day of its song–
Was it you?

Early this morning some one frowned;
Some one sulked until others scowled;
And soon harsh words were passed around–
Was it you?

Some one started the day aright–
Was it you?
Some one made it happy and bright–
Was it you?

Early this morning, we are told,
Some one smiled and all through the day–
This smile encouraged young and old–
Was it you?

We are meant to be
Like roses in the spring,
Full and fresh and new,
And budding and blossoming.

We are meant to be
Like stars of the summer,
Bright and clear and high,
And young and full of wonder.

We are meant to be
Like leaves at the autumn,
Ripe and crisp and turning,
And prepared for what’s to come.

We are meant to be
Even after it is fall,
Tombstones in the winter,
Everything, all in all.

Well hello there my friend,
I haven’t seen you since the end,
I’m glad to see you once more,
I’ve missed you since you left out that door,
Now there is nothing left to say,
I’m leaving now,
Hope to see you another day.

This poem was written/submitted by navjot.

What matters is not how deep the valley,
Nor how dark the lonely night,
But the closeness of our loving Shepherd,
Our Comforter – our guiding Light.

He who holds our hand when we need a friend,
And carries His helpless sheep,
Lights our path with His Glorious Presence,
Our hearts and souls to keep.

What matters is not how big the problem,
Nor those obstacles we face,
But the strength and power of our Great God,
And His sustaining grace.

When I was small, a Woman died –
Today — her Only Boy
Went up from the Potomac –
His face all Victory

To look at her — How slowly
The Seasons must have turned
Till Bullets clipt an Angle
And He passed quickly round –

If pride shall be in Paradise –
Ourself cannot decide –
Of their imperial Conduct –
No person testified –

But, proud in Apparition –
That Woman and her Boy
Pass back and forth, before my Brain
As even in the sky –

I’m confident that Bravoes –
Perpetual break abroad
For Braveries, remote as this
In Scarlet Maryland –

This poem was written/submitted by Emily Dickinson.

When Night is almost done –
And Sunrise grows so near
That we can touch the Spaces –
It’s time to smooth the Hair –

And get the Dimples ready –
And wonder we could care
For that old — faded Midnight –
That frightened — but an Hour

This poem was written/submitted by Emily Dickinson.

When One has given up One’s life
The parting with the rest
Feels easy, as when Day lets go
Entirely the West

The Peaks, that lingered last
Remain in Her regret
As scarcely as the Iodine
Upon the Cataract.

This poem was written/submitted by Emily Dickinson.