Each day

I shall be resurrected

From the grave

Of some disappointment or sorrow.

I will not make a fetish

Of my defeats,

Nor hang them

In the halls of my heart,

Nor worship them.

The loves, hopes and ambitions

That have failed me,

Or perchance that I have failed,

Are dead, and I will not live

In the putrid atmosphere of sorrow.

I shall bury them,

Reverently, for what they have been

And for what they have taught me;

Deeply, for what they have ceased to be.

Upon the graves

I shall plant the flowers

Of kind remembrance,

And for one brief hour,

Water them

With the sincere tears of regret.

Then I shall emulate the Psalmist,

And “LIFT UP MINE EYES UNTO THE HILLS

FROM WHENCE COMETH MY HELP.”

I shall be true to the life

With which the CREATOR

Has endowed me.

I shall not bury it with the dead,

Nor crucify it

By keeping vigil beside a grave.

But with that life,

I shall follow

The glowing star of faith

Far thru the valley,

And at length to the heights

Where mortal life blends

Into eternity.

William H. Meehan