Stella L. Curr

Stella L. Curr, 91, of Syracuse, passed away April 30, 2020.

Stella was born in Syracuse, New York on December 16, 1928 to Stanley and Caroline Kogut. She was employed by the Unity Insurance Company. Stella loved the Lord Jesus Christ. The 23rd Psalm was her favorite, which she memorized and recited often. She loved to pray for the salvation of others.

She was preceded in death by her beloved husband, Andrew W. Curr.

She is survived by her daughter, Susan J. Curr; son, Andrew J. Curr and daughter-in-law, Carol Curr

Burial will be private in the Veteran's Memorial Cemetery.

Please come and join us in celebrating our mom's 3 favorite poems on her journey of life.

THE WATER MILL
BY SARAH DOUDNEY

Listen to the water mill,
Through the livelong day;
How the clicking of the wheel
Wears the hours away.
Languidly the autumn wind
Stirs the withered leaves;
On the field the reapers sing,
Binding up the sheaves;
And a proverb haunts my mind,
And as a spell is cast,
" The mill will never grind
With the water that has passed. "

Autumn winds revive no more
Leaves strewn o'er earth and main.
The sickle never more shall reap
The yellow, garnered grain;
And the rippling stream flows on
Tranquil, deep and still,
Never gliding back again
To the water mill.
Truly speaks the proverb old,
With a meaning vast:
" The mill will never grind
With the water that has passed. "

Take the lesson to thyself,
Loving heart and true;
Golden years are fleeting by,
Youth is passing, too.
Learn to make the most of life,
Lose no happy day!
Time will ne'er return again —
Sweet chances thrown away.
Leave no tender word unsaid,
But love while love shall last:
" The mill will never grind
With the water that has passed. "

Work, while yet the sun does shine,
Men of strength and will!
Never does the streamlet glide
Useless by the mill.
Wait not till tomorrow's sun
Beams brightly on thy way;
All that thou canst call thine own
Lies in this word: " Today! "
Power, intellect and health
Will not always last:
" The mill will never grind
With the water that has passed. "

O, the wasted hours of life
That have swiftly drifted by!
O, the good we might have done!
Gone, lost without a sigh!
Love that we might once have saved
By a single kindly word;
Thoughts conceived, but ne'er expressed,
Perishing unpenned, unheard!
Take the proverb to thy soul!
Take, and clasp it fast:
" The mill will never grind
With the water that has passed. "

O, love thy God and fellow man,
Thyself consider last;
For come it will when thou must scan
Dark errors of the past.
And when the fight of life is o'er
And earth recedes from view.
And heaven in all its glory shines.
'Midst the good, the pure, the true,
Then you will see more clearly
The proverb, deep and vast:
" The mill will never grind
With the water that has passed. "


RAIN IN SUMMER
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!
How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!
Across the window-pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain!
The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.
From the neighboring school
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise
And commotion;
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Ingulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.
In the country, on every side,
Where far and wide,
Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,
Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain
How welcome is the rain!
In the furrowed land
The toilsome and patient oxen stand;
Lifting the yoke encumbered head,
With their dilated nostrils spread,
They silently inhale
The clover-scented gale,
And the vapors that arise
From the well-watered and smoking soil.
For this rest in the furrow after toil
Their large and lustrous eyes
Seem to thank the Lord,
More than man's spoken word.
Near at hand,
From under the sheltering trees,
The farmer sees
His pastures, and his fields of grain,
As they bend their tops
To the numberless beating drops
Of the incessant rain.
He counts it as no sin
That he sees therein
Only his own thrift and gain.
These, and far more than these,
The Poet sees!
He can behold
Aquarius old
Walking the fenceless fields of air;
And from each ample fold
Of the clouds about him rolled
Scattering everywhere
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain.
He can behold
Things manifold
That have not yet been wholly told,--
Have not been wholly sung nor said.
For his thought, that never stops,
Follows the water-drops
Down to the graves of the dead,
Down through chasms and gulfs profound,
To the dreary fountain-head
Of lakes and rivers under ground;
And sees them, when the rain is done,
On the bridge of colors seven
Climbing up once more to heaven,
Opposite the setting sun.
Thus the Seer,
With vision clear,
Sees forms appear and disappear,
In the perpetual round of strange,
Mysterious change
From birth to death, from death to birth,
From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth;
Till glimpses more sublime
Of things, unseen before,
Unto his wondering eyes reveal
The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel
Turning forevermore
In the rapid and rushing river of Time.

IN FLANDERS FIELD
BY JOHN MCCRAE

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.


Memorial contributions may be made to Grace Assembly Church Missions Fund, 4220 Fay Rd, Taunton, NY, www.graceagsyracuse.com

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