William McKendree Carleton (October 21, 1845 – December 18, 1912) was an American poet. Carleton's poems were most often about his rural life.
But I have learned a thing or two; I know as sure as fate, when we lock up our lives for wealth, the gold key comes too late.
Thanksgiving-day, I fear, If one the solemn truth must touch, Is celebrated, not so much To thank the Lord for blessing o'er, As for the sake of getting more!
Boys flying kites haul in their white winged birds; You can't do that way when you're flying words. Careful with fire, is good advice we know Careful with words, is ten times doubly so. Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead; But God Himself can't kill them when they're said.
Not all the labour of the earth Is done by hardened hands.
We thank Thee, O Father of all, for. . . all the soul-help that sad souls understand.
And that was the way The deuce was to pay As it always is, at the close of the day That gave us
Over all our happy country - over all our Nation spread, Is a band of noble heroes - is our Army of the Dead.
Cover them over with beautiful flowers, Deck them with garlands, those brothers of ours, Lying so silent by night and by day.
To appreciate heaven well, it's good for a person to have some fifteen minutes of hell.
Yellow, mellow, ripened days, Sheltered in a golden coating; O'er the dreamy, listless haze, White and dainty cloudlets floating; Winking at the blushing trees, And the sombre, furrowed fallow; Smiling at the airy ease, Of the southward flying swallow Sweet and smiling are thy ways, Beauteous, golden Autumn days.
I've watched my duty, straight an' true, an' tried to do it well; Part of the time kept heaven in view, An' part steered clear of hell.
So I have talked with Betsey and Betsey has talked with me, And we have agreed together that we can't never agree
Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way.
There's lots of people - this town wouldn't hold them; Who don't know much excepting what's told them.
Worm or beetle - drought or tempest - on a farmer's land may fall, Each is loaded full o' ruin, but a mortgage beats 'em all.
If there's a heaven upon the earth, a fellow knows it when He's been away from home a week, and then gets back again.
The editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with care, His mind at the bottom of business, his feet at the top of a chair, His chair-arm an elbow supporting, his right hand upholding his head, His eyes on his dusty old table, with different documents spread.
Cover them over with beautiful flowers, Deck them with garlands, those brothers of ours, Lying so silent by night and by day Sleeping the years of their manhood away. Give them the meed they have won in the past; Give them the honors their future forcast; Give them the chaplets they won in the strife; Give them the laurels they lost with their life.