NOVEMBER TWENTY-SECOND
Saint Cecilia martyred A.D. 230.
Sir Henry Havelock died 1857.
Justin M’Carthy born 1830.
Sometimes the sun, unkindly
hot,
My garden makes a desert spot,
Sometimes a blight upon the
tree
Takes all my fruit away from
me;
And then with throes of bitter
pain
Rebellious passions rise and
swell;
And so I sing and all is well.
—Paul Laurence Dunbar.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse
of care,
And come like benediction
That follows after
prayer.
—Henry W. Longfellow.
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley.
David took the harp, and played
with his hand: so Saul was
refreshed, and was well, and
the evil spirit departed from him.
—1 Samuel 16. 23.
Almighty God, I thank thee that thou wilt come to me as my heart cries for need. I bless thee that thou dost come to me as my lips sing thy praise. I pray that I may be saved from a cruel and cheerless heart, and be a sharer of the songs that are sung to the soul. Amen.
NOVEMBER TWENTY-THIRD
Thomas Tallis died 1585.
Franklin Pierce, New Hampshire, fourteenth President
United States, born 1804.
Marie Bashkirtseff born 1860.
Asleep, awake, by night or
day,
The friends I
seek are seeking me;
No word can drive my bark
astray,
Nor change the
tide of destiny.
The stars come nightly to
the sky,
The tidal wave
unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep,
nor high,
Can keep my own
away from me.
—John Burroughs.
If a man could make a single
rose we would give him an empire; yet
flowers no less beautiful
are scattered in profusion over the world,
and no one regards them.
—Martin Luther.
Let patience have its perfect work.
—James 1. 4.
My Creator, may I remember that after thou didst create the earth thou didst say it was good. May I love the fragrance and beauty of the flowers which were made to nourish the soul, and the fruits and herbs which were made to nourish the body. May my song of thanksgiving be new every morning, as I awake in the abundance of what thou hast prepared. Amen.
NOVEMBER TWENTY-FOURTH
John Knox died 1572.
Baron Spinoza born 1632.
Grace Darling born 1815.
Frances Hodgson Burnett born 1849.
I waited long until the sky
Should give me
of its blue
To weave and wear, and share,
and weave
The very stars
into.
The days they went, the years
they went,
And left my hands
instead
Another thing for wonderment,
The mending and
the bread.