Nu sculon herigean
Now we must praise
heofonrices weard
heaven-kingdom’s Guardian,
meotodes meahte
the Measurer’s might
and his modgeþanc
and his mind-plans,
weorc wuldor-fæder
the work of the Glory-Father,
swa he wundra gehwæs
when he of wonders of every one,
ece drihten
eternal Lord,
or onstealde
the beginning established.
He ærest sceop
He first created
ielda bearnum
for men’s sons
heofon to hrofe
heaven as a roof,
halig scyppend
holy Creator;
ða middangeard
then middle-earth
moncynnes Weard
mankind’s Guardian,
ece drihten
eternal Lord,
æfter teode
afterwards made—
firum foldan
for men earth,
frea ælmihtig
Master almighty.
Cædmon’s Hymn is considered the earliest surviving poem written in Old English and serves as a foundational text in English literary history. The poem is a hymn of praise that honors God as the eternal Creator, emphasizing divine power, wisdom, and intentional design in the creation of heaven, earth, and humankind. Through a series of reverential titles and parallel phrases, the speaker calls on listeners to recognize God’s authority and the ordered beauty of the created world (Ferguson et al., 2018, p. 1).
The poem reflects the oral traditions of early Germanic verse, employing strong alliteration, rhythmic half-lines, and formulaic expressions to reinforce its devotional purpose. Although Christian in theme, Cædmon’s Hymn retains the stylistic features of pre-Christian Anglo-Saxon poetry, illustrating how early English poets adapted traditional forms to express new religious ideas. Preserved through later manuscript copies, the hymn represents both a literary and cultural transition from oral performance to written record (Ferguson et al., 2018, p. 1).
Reference: Ferguson, M., Salter, M. J., & Stallworthy, J. (Eds.). (2018). The Norton anthology of poetry (6th ed., p. 1). W. W. Norton & Company.
Cædmon’s Hymn sounds familiar because its steady rhythm and alliteration echo patterns still used in English poetry, making it feel musical and intentional to the ear. At the same time, it sounds foreign due to its Old English pronunciation and unfamiliar phonetics, which create a distance that reminds listeners they are hearing an earlier stage of the language.
Have a listen:
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God, can you hear me?
Are you counting my tears,
do you know my heart—
the weight it carries in silence?
Can you feel my fears
when sorrow settles heavy,
when I am weary, my soul
tattered and torn?
Do you hear my cry
when words abandon me,
when the depths of my distress
have no name?
I reach for you
on unbended knees,
offering what I cannot say—
my unspoken words.
God,
in this quiet,
can you hear me?
Simona A. Brinson
Youth is not a time of life—it is a state of mind.
It is not a matter of red cheeks, red lips and supple knees.
It is a temper of the will; a quality of the imagination; a vigor of the emotions;
it is a freshness of the deep springs of life.
Youth means a temperamental predominance of courage over timidity,
of the appetite for adventure over a life of ease.
This often exists in a man of fifty, more than in a boy of twenty.
Nobody grows old by merely living a number of years;
people grow old by deserting their ideals.
Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.
Worry, doubt, self-distrust, fear and despair—
these are the long, long years that bow the head
and turn the growing spirit back to dust.
Whether seventy or sixteen, there is in every being’s heart a love of wonder;
the sweet amazement at the stars and starlike things and thoughts;
the undaunted challenge of events,
the unfailing childlike appetite for what comes next,
and the joy in the game of life.
You are as young as your faith, as old as your doubt;
as young as your self-confidence, as old as your fear,
as young as your hope, as old as your despair.
In the central place of your heart there is a wireless station.
So long as it receives messages of beauty, hope, cheer, grandeur, courage,
and power from the earth, from men and from the Infinite—so long are you young.
When the wires are all down and the central places of your heart are covered with the
snows of pessimism and the ice of cynicism,
then are you grown old, indeed!
This piece is most commonly attributed to Samuel Ullman.
It comes from his prose poem Youth, written in the early 20th century. Although Ullman was not widely known during his lifetime, this text gained lasting recognition later, particularly after it was popularized by Douglas MacArthur, who admired it deeply and reportedly kept a copy in his office.
So while the passage is often mistaken for a speech, a motivational essay, or even a biblical or philosophical text, it is in fact a prose poem by Samuel Ullman, centered on youth as a state of mind rather than a measure of age.
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I love you,
Not only for what you are,
But for what I am
When I am with you.
I love you
Not only for what
You have made of yourself,
But for what
You are making of me.
I love you
For ignoring the possibilities
Of the fool in me
And for laying firm hold
Of the possibilities for good.
Why do I love you?
I love you
For closing your eyes
To the discords ---
And for adding to the music in me
By worshipful listening.
I love you because you
Are helping me to make
Of the lumber of my life
Not a tavern
But a temple;
And out of the words
Of my every day
Not a reproach
But a song.
I love you
Because you have done
More than any creed
To make me happy.
You have done it
Without a word,
Without a touch,
Without a sign.
You have done it
Just by being yourself.
After all
Perhaps that is what
Love means.
Knowing why you love someone matters because love without awareness can easily drift into habit, dependency, or projection. When we cannot name the reasons for our love, we risk loving an idea rather than a person—loving what someone provides instead of who they are. The poem insists that love is not rooted in usefulness, improvement, or effort, but in recognition: loving someone “not for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you,” and for who they remain even when they do nothing at all. Understanding why we love clarifies our values and keeps love honest. It separates genuine connection from obligation and helps ensure that affection is freely chosen rather than unconsciously assumed.
Expressing that love, especially when it is grounded in such understanding, gives the beloved something essential: being seen. To articulate love is to offer reassurance that their existence alone is enough—that they do not need to perform, fix, or earn their place. The poem shows how, when spoken, love becomes a mirror in which the other can recognize their own worth. This expression steadies relationships; it creates a sense of emotional safety and trust. When someone hears why they are loved, love becomes less fragile and less conditional. It transforms from a feeling into a presence—one that affirms, anchors, and allows both people to remain fully themselves.
Simona A. Brinson
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