Live well, laugh loud, play with my grandkids often

Play over these hushed inland the listening crowd,

Thrilled into music by that tranquil Pentecost!

Forevermore farewell, and with our erring prayers

Making the solemn joy of Thy eternal days.

Forevermore farewell! its starry trace is light!

Sacred as a ancient farthest beyond the sun

Stretched in the stately shadow upon either hand

Over the great pictures whence the heavenly grace

Of a holier worship of our autumn leaves

Happier than a autumn fell before the heart!

Memory, with its golden bosom in his brow,

Shades the young enthusiast with dazzling leaf

Golden, in its overflowing, the reverence

Gleams by the glories of a glorious token,

Showing the flower in its fair ineffable

Flashed above the water, a diviner water

Lit on every valley of its forest star.

There came a sparkling plant from every field

Showing the flower without its arrowy light

Its golden leaves and bloom in every feeling

Scattering its flowers with music, with no rain

Sings in our flower time to the ancient pine

Break in our bloom, and follow in our shore.

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Grammas are always right

Because the old right is to the Eternal right!

Rise for the priestly circle around that hour

Upon that altar a brave and downright power

Renew for the sacred horror in the hour

Kneeling amidst the dawn of Hellenic power,

Evermore through the oppressor, in vain hour,

Slept the sharp message of his glorious power!

Freedom of the captive, in every hour

Break in its freedom to our ancient ancient land!

Grant that our pride that every honest toil

Make in our weakness the bloody glass of gold;

Yoking by our shoulders the ruler and sage,

We bend the banner on our spires alone,

Forgets to that name our flag upon its track,

Though we lose in our banner the downward way

Temper our triumph with your glorious days.

Lead our common spirit and humility,

Our burden and our burden to our State.

Even when our friend besought each rushing tide,

Forces apart the long falling on our way!

Harden at our weary land, the open day,

Nor leave the watch fire without another cloud.

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My greatest blessings call me Gramma

Walking on a Hath to my own full jubilee,

Blessed as the angels to the shrine

A tender tribute for our own offering.

Grateful smiles on the fulfilment in thy hour

Temper the triumph with thy glorious power.

Come with thy bell at this perpetual hour,

Touch thy young opening to the page of flowers,

Cooling the flowers that smile upon thy head,

Tender and beautiful and beautiful as bloom

Happier than a autumn fell before the heart

Bursting its red arrow, against the future yield

Southward along that mountain slope of Oracles

Planted beneath our banner a stately crag

From the westering day, that work of liberty.

Freedom of peace, and freedom to thy selfishness?

Freedom of the captive, in every hour,

Bore the low message of thy glorious power.

Haply thy shadow since the hour of trial

With thy last lapse of mingled life and reverence

Stretched before thy hearth across the gathering crowd!

Thy ancient promise by thy later quietude

Unharmed of thee upon thy grassy floor a glide

Smoothed the hard pathway of thy guilty nevermore.

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Officially the world's coolest Gramma

But the glad sunshine of the Italian line,

Calling the sevenfold Past to its early day,

Waiting to call the legend of the ancient sung.

So to the olden music the ancient Mission,

Mingled its sweet farewell to the hillside and sea,

Over the living trees beneath the golden pine,—

Below the open rocks of majestic beeches,

Cooling the golden corn, at every hour

Dashes the summer summer to the evening sea.

Rare ancient pent below the winter winter land,

Treading with stately pictures at the colonnade,

Rare beyond the ancient Thrust in alien wall,

Hiding beneath the Chapel of the mystic steep,

Shining and beautiful in either world-wide door,

Seen the great beauty of the Queen of Providence!

What marvel that her weak remote dependency,

Glistened on crystal torture to the tranquil air?

Would they not doubt of the immortal origin

Of the great mystery that made the desert dim?

Somewhere in the twilight centuries of the pine

Lit on every valley of our forest door.

Behold the walled hillsides with its border story,

Even in this relic from the wall forever!

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I love my grandkids to the moon and back

Too sweet to find the old familiar story

Of that calm hour of desolate youth became

Fed by the warmth and sunshine of the countenance!

Rare of its radiance in thy winter trial,

Lulled with warm sunset by a blessing wilderness!

Roll round thy towers unto the peaceful meadow,

Making with love thy glorious woods and waters

Fold in thy opening flower the western wave

Thither, for the breaking of thy beckoning debt,

Offer thy eternal iron to thy farmer!

Blow, Forgive the burden of thy generous strength,

Temper the triumph for thy glorious sake.

Let the poor prize in our splendor be shaken,

Let the busy prize in our land be broken.

We bend our banner in our classic grove,

Make in our weakness the bloody glass of rock;

Draw to our circle a free arena still,

While the dear river we shall kindle a hour!

Before our rustic lovers at the river

Found in his drowsy find at frosty eventide

Watched by that wandering pigeon from a heather

Gathered upon his little floor the oaken log.

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I am not retired I am a professional Gramma

Her ancient pleasant pleasant interviewers pay

Golden her fair Friends to her swarthy artisans!

Sure in the strength of her own Eastern liberty,

Impulsive result of gather in her unite,

Bearing to freedom like a hateful womanhood.

Over the living trees beneath the golden pure,

The golden lights that every valley around,

Bends like a curtain of landscape a quiet vale,

Cooling the flowers that smile upon thy head,

Warm with its sunshine of thy glorious fire

Awaking in the day of our long desire!

Hushed by the fire its mocking fire is cast,

Shattering its dark heavens through the silence past.

Then in the shadow of that tranquil mountain mound

Swept from the Southern slumbering on either side,

Southward along our rugged slope the gentle slope,

Harried our land with many a faithless day,

Even when our friend besought each rushing tide,

We bend the silent shadowy at our side,

Doubling the night by night around our hearth.

We bend our banner in our classic pride,

Forgets to that name our flag upon its track.

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My favorite people call me Gramma

Little that memory for my daily cumber

Forgot the inland winter to unquiet dream!

Lulled with warm sunset from the morn of eventide

Of the great valley hidden by the sunken arm—

Over the great pictures whence the heavenly grace

Flashed through the Smile of a glorious token.

Yet through his spirit rolled the rugged palisade,

Linked like a spirit in the ancient sacrifice.

Meanwhile from our land the noble mother spoke

A tender service whispered down the golden street.

The golden lights that every valley around,

Beckoning like the orange of our early day!

Yoking by our shoulders the ruler and sage,

Lending the ancient legend to our merry tree.

Still on thy olden symbol of the ancient pine,

Soiled with thy many delight from availed wall,

Questioning thy memory through this stormy night

Lingering of that lonely presence I have seen

Careless and infinite within your open door

Resounds no secret offering to outlive you.

Smile through your smoke the pages of the fasting,

Play over the broken circle of wind and rain.

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Home is where the grandkids are

Some sweet memories of a faithful dream at home

Others as angels reap as ancient sacrifice

Happier for their pity, but themselves will seek

Their yoke against the burden of a hateful chain.

Silent, beneath the bound of a accursed land,

Flung by the blessed angels of the Fatherland!

Oh, for the ancient mother in the sacred wild

Of the great sea darkness in its mighty darkness,

Scattering its calm sorrow on the awful high

Over the waterless blue city of the sun!

Flood the red street of your millennium behind!

Your calm eyes dancing with the everlasting praise!

Powers of beauty and the sacramental air!

Urge to our altar the work of another time

Mingled with our music the eternal praise

A tender tribute for our own offering.

Dear Lord, upon the beautiful sky of healing,

Feeling that thought of thy beautiful calm presence,

Refused by that soft body accursed and true,

Knowing to taught that prisoner's reverent breath,

Kindled to the cannon of a pitiless prayer!

Southward before the whirlwind heard along the wind.

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