Margaret Elizabeth Sangster

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Rating: 4.33

Margaret Elizabeth Sangster Poems

It isn't the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you leave undone
That gives you a bit of a heartache
At setting of the sun.

If I had known in the morning
How wearily all the day
the words unkind
would trouble my mind, that

I saw a little dog today,
And oh, that dog was lost;

I've crossed the bar at last, mates,
My longest voyage is done;
And I can sit here, peaceful,
And watch th' setting sun

Down by the end of the lane it stands,
Where the sumac grows in a crimson thatch,
Down where the sweet wild berry patch,

Let's go down the road together, you and I,
Let's go down the road together,
Through the vivid autumn weather;

Each day when the glow of sunset
Fades in the western sky,
And the wee ones, tired of playing,
Go tripping lightly by,

Never yet was a springtime,
Late though lingered the snow,
That the sap stirred not at the whisper
Of the south wind, sweet and low;

Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
Sorter thin an' worn;
With th' fingers neatly darned,
Like they had been torn.

'You are white and tall and swaying,' sang the river
to the tree,
'And your leaves are touched with silver - but you
never smile on me;

The candlelight sweeps softly through the room,
Filling dim surfaces with golden laughter,
Touching with mystery each high hung rafter,

The window box across the street
Is filled with scarlet flowers;
They glow, like bits of sunset cloud,
Across the dragging hours.

I live! And the scarlet sunrise is climbing the
mountain steep,
I live . . . And below, in the caverns, the rest
of my clansmen sleep;

I walked down Fifth Avenue the other day
(In the languid summertime everybody strolls down
Fifth Avenue);

The dust is thick on the city street,
The smoke on the city sky
Hangs dense and gray at the close of day -
And the city crowds surge by

The woods lay dreaming in a topaz dream,
And we, who silently roamed hand in hand,
Were pilgrims in a strange, enchanted land,

HIS fourscore years and five
Are gone, like a tale that is told.
The quick tears start, there ’s an ache at the heart,

When th.' sunshine's golden-yeller
Like th' curls upon his head,
Then he wakes - th' lil' feller -
An' he jumps up, outen bed;


A storm may rage in the world below,
It may tear great trees apart;
But here on the mountain top, I know
That it cannot touch my heart.

Oh, face to face with trouble,
friend, I have often stood,
to learn that pain hath sweetness,
to know that God is good;

Margaret Elizabeth Sangster Biography

Margaret Elizabeth Sangster (1838-1912) was an American poet, author, and editor. She was popular in the late 19th and early 20th century. Childhood Sangster was the daughter of John Munson of Ireland and Margaret Chisholm of New York. Her father was in the marble industry in New York City. Margaret and her younger sister Isabell grew up in a very religious household and the two sisters were well educated. Career Sangster eventually became an editor at Harper’s Bazaar. Through her work she became acquainted with notable people of her age, including Mark Twain and Helen Keller. Other than Harper’s Bazaar, she contributed to Ladies' Home Journal, Hearth and Home, and the Christian Intelligencer. Sangster wrote numerous novels and collections of poetry, all deeply infused with religious overtones and references. Personal life Sangster spent most of her life in New York and New Jersey. She married George Sangster in 1858 and essentially gave up writing until after his death in 1871. She never remarried and she died in 1912. Her nephew, Charles Chisholm Brainerd, was married to the author Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd.)

The Best Poem Of Margaret Elizabeth Sangster

The Sin Of Omission

It isn't the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you leave undone
That gives you a bit of a heartache
At setting of the sun.
The tender work forgotten,
The letter you did not write,
The flowers you did not send, dear,
Are your haunting ghosts at night.

The stone you might have lifted
Out of a brother's way;
The bit of heartsome counsel
You were hurried too much to say;
The loving touch of the hand, dear,
The gentle, winning tone
Which you had no time nor thought for
With troubles enough of your own.

Those little acts of kindness
So easily out of mind,
Those chances to be angels
Which we poor mortals find -
They come in night and silence,
Each sad, reproachful wraith,
When hope is faint and flagging,
And a chill has fallen on faith.

For life is all too short, dear,
And sorrow is all to great,
To suffer our slow compassion
That tarries until too late:
And it isn't the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you leave undone
Which gives you a bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun.

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LUVmylipgloss 10 May 2018


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