The things that haven't been done before,
   Those are the things to try;
   Columbus dreamed of an unknown shore
   At the rim of the far-flung sky,
   And his heart was bold and his faith was strong
   As he ventured in dangers new,
   And he paid no heed to the jeering throng
   Or the fears of the doubting crew.

The many will follow the beaten track
With guideposts on the way,
They live and have lived for ages back
With a chart for every day.
Someone has told them it's safe to go
On the road he has traveled o'er,
And all that they ever strive to know
Are the things that were known before.

A few strike out, without map or chart,
Where never a man has been,
From the beaten paths they draw apart
To see what no man has seen.
There are deeds they hunger alone to do;
Though battered and bruised and sore,
They blaze the path for the many, who
Do nothing not done before.

The things that haven't been done before
Are the tasks worth while to-day;
Are you one of the flock that follows, or
Are you one that shall lead the way?
Are you one of the timid souls that quail
At the jeers of a doubting crew,
Or dare you, whether you win or fail,
Strike out for a goal that's new?

We watched the screen, horrified:
Though we’d seen the collapse
A hundred times
From ten points of view;
It couldn’t be true.

No warning.  No warning at all.
One minute filing papers, meetings,
Presentations, new promotions, interviews,
Potential clients, tours, shopping,
Drinking a Coke, grabbing a Danish,
Then shocked oblivion:
The airplane’s blast an exploding sun--
Evacuation for the lucky ones.

Dutifully, police then come
To serve, protect, direct mass exit.
Firefighters spray the blaze;
Exhausted from walking up flights and flights
And flights of stairs.
Caught unawares
These brave ones crushed by falling death.

Thousands of tapers
Blown out by heaving sigh,
Groaning under steel and cement
Dropped from blue sky.

Thousands of papers
Covered with soot,
Once carefully filed,
Now scattered for miles.
Rescuers trudge over them,
Searching for valuables under the rubble.

New Yorkers don’t push, don’t yell, don’t loot.
Instead offer hands, offer time, offer blood.
And we decry the evil, embrace the mourning,
Send supplies and inundate the Red Cross with volunteers.
Our humanity combats the terror.

Still we watch . . . and count.
Number each loss of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons,
Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins.
The children never again picked up from day care by parents.
Weddings which will never be.
Ball games with Dad indefinitely delayed.
Vacations ending in triage or morgues.
Dry cleaning with missing owners.
Lifetimes of unfinished business.
A thousand stings of reality.

Then ponder our own drive to work,
Of last words spoken before leaving,
And the warmth of the embrace we gave once home
As we touched them like it was our first . . . or last time.

The living—shall we yet live?
Those of us more lightly touched
Feel haunted by our lost security.
We’ll hold each other longer at airports,
Leave everyone with a kinder goodbye,
And greet strangers, now siblings in this dreadful birth.

Those whose grief more deeply lies
Will feel the grip of this day on their hearts,
Though loosen slightly over years,
Never really disappear.

Each day, to wonder and decide:
Is life a curse, from which to hide?
A nightmare that the morning’s wake
But continues barren ache?
Or life a gift—first sullenly received,
But later loved more fully for its fragility?

Jenny Scoville Walsh wrote this poignant remembrance on the night of September 11, 2001. 
She couldn't sleep until she wrote everything she was thinking and feeling on that horrible day.

Thank you Jenny!