Arnold Loveridge | friend | May 22, 2011 |
Arnold Loveridge | friend | May 22, 2011 |
Arnold Loveridge | friend | May 22, 2011 |
Arnold Loveridge | friend | May 22, 2011 |
Fran Gollmer | to a friend | May 1, 2011 |
Friends | at Lehi High | April 28, 2011 |
Friends | at Cascaade | April 28, 2011 |
Nichols | Family | April 28, 2011 |
Arnold Loveridge | Aunt | April 28, 2011 |
The funeral is over,
My only son is laid to rest
And the crowds are gone.
When my tears are not yet dry?
For each time I try to escape the thought
It comes softly, then thundering
Without him?
And I was not there to disrupt his decision.
Were forever changed in a moment.
The darkness of anger, frustration,
Bitterness, sadness and loneliness
Overwhelms me
And threatens my very existence.
And yet I must not dwell in sadness
I will remember the little boy
Who came to me from far across the sea,
The young teen who called to me,
(Not often enough)
And loves me still.
And even those not so sweet
Because they were a part of him.
Yes, the funeral is over
Goodbyes are always hard.
But with a prayer in my heart,
And the love of my Savior,
And goodbyes 'will be forgotten
In that precious moment
Love,
Wanda
Arnold Loveridge | Friend | April 28, 2011 |
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners w horn renown outran
And the name died before the man.
So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.
And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.
R.E. Housman
---------------------------------------------------- \
Come, gentle night, come, loving black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
Romeo and Julliet, Act 3 Scene 2
-----------------------------------------------------------
Dear RevaBeth