Of Ethereal Cups

Today, for all that it may lack

Or nevermore will be

Is a wee cup that we fill up

With living’s memory

Today, for better or for worse

We tread its tender path

Soon it will be a memory

Time’s precious aftermath

Today, before it slips away

To past’s eternity

May we employ peace, love and joy

Into its memory

Today will never dawn again

Softly it comes, to pass

Both good and ill has no re-fill

Within its hour glass

Today; a once in every life-time

Opportunity

As we fill up this ethereal cup

With living's memory

© Janet Martin

I read this poem this morning...it struck a chord.

What I Call Living... by Edgar A. Guest (one of my favorite poets ever)

The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold;

The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold;

The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea,

And upon this vital subject no two of us agree.

But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along,

That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song.

I wouldn't call it living always to be seeking gold,

To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old.

I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame,

And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim.

I wouldn't for the splendor of the world set out to roam,

And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home

.Oh, the thing that I call living isn't gold or fame at all!

It's good-fellowship and sunshine, and it's roses by the wall;

It's evenings glad with music and a hearth fire that's ablaze,

And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways.

It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal;

It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul.