Front:
Fletcher's
Family
Philosophy
99 ON
Relentlessly each hour, each day
Goes dripping down the drain.
And wantonly with wasteful ways
We watch the winters wane.
We surge ahead to seek the sun
Until some icy hand
Strikes suddenly
To ask or understand?
Then life goes on; each to his task,
Each bitter heartache veiled;
Each measure of emotion masked
Composure unassailed.
So little time is left befo re
The fleeting years are spent,
And who can count the caustic score
Of what our lives have meant?
Who knows what new tomorrows hold?
Just so we have today.
This day is ours to make or mould,
Or let it slip away.
There may be countless years ahead
To consummate our course;
But comes a time when these have fled,
And mock Our vain remorse.
Not one am I to toll the bell
Depicting dismal doom;
But rather that we break the spell
And venture while there's room.
Live ev'ry moment to the hilt,
Demand to do and dare;
The human mind was never built
To demonstrate despair.
and who is one
Copyright 1965 by Harry Wellesley Fletcher
Back:
An original poem by
Harry Wellesley Fletcher
one of a series previously published
in The Carmel (Calif.) Pine Cone.
Place
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Stamp
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Printed in the U.S.A., Pub. by H. W. Fletcher,
54 Varni Road, Watsonville, California, U.S.A.
