Constant Beauty

This poem, Constant Beauty, was written during the war, but the message in its verses could be applied to any type of challenge. Mr. Guest reminds us the beauty in nature that surrounds us that can give us hope and comfort.

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Constant Beauty
Poet: Edgar A. Guest

It's good to have the trees again, the singing of the breeze again,
It's good to see the lilacs bloom as lovely as of old.
It's good that we can feel again the touch of beauties real again,
For hearts and minds, of sorrow now, have all that they can hold.

The roses haven't changed a bit, nor have the lilacs stranged a bit,
They bud and bloom the way they did before the war began.
The world is upside down to-day, there's much to make us frown to-day,
And gloom and sadness everywhere beset the path of man.

But now the lilacs bloom again and give us their perfume again,
And now the roses smile at us and nod along the way;
And it is good to see again the blossoms on each tree again,
And feel that nature hasn't changed the way we have to-day.

Oh, we have changed from what we were; we're not the carefree lot we were;
Our hearts are filled with sorrow now and grave concern and pain,
But it is good to see once more, the blooming lilac tree once more,
And find the constant roses here to comfort us again.

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Poems About The Seasons

Another poem by Edgar A. Guest about the beauty of nature in Michigan, but for many of us you could replace the place of Michigan, and put in your home and the same feelings would apply.

The Green of Michigan
Poet: Edgar A. Guest

I've seen the Rockies in the west,
I've seen the canyons wild and grim,
I've seen the prairies golden dressed,
And California's hedges prim.
I've seen the Kansas com fields blow,
I've seen them wearing summer's tan;
But there's no place on earth can show
Such glorious green as Michigan.

I've seen the blue of foreign skies,
I've seen old England's shady lanes.
The famous spots men advertise,
The mountains and the rolling plains;
But wearily my eyes have turned
From scenes that others gayly scan.
And secretly my soul has yearned
To see the green of Michigan.

I've traveled in a Pullman car
And watched the landscape slipping by,
But always though I've wandered far
To fairer charms my mind would fly;
And when at last the moving scenes
Seem painted by some Master Man
With all the cool and restful greens,
I know I'm back in Michigan.

Here Mother Nature never tires
And droops her head upon her breast;
Beneath the scorching summer fires
She keeps her youth and looks her best.
When other states have lost the hue
They had when first the spring began,
'Tis like refreshing drink to view
The splendid green of Michigan.

Go search for charms on foreign shores,
Enthuse of wonders, as you roam,
I choose the splendors at our doors,
I sing the rich delights of home,
The trees in garb of glory dressed.
The fertile fields that round us span;
I sing the charm that thrills me best,
The glorious green of Michigan!

The Ready Artists
Poet: Edgar A. Guest

The green is in the meadow and the blue is in the sky,
And all of Nature's artists have their colors handy by;
With a few days bright with sunshine and a few nights free from frost
They will start to splash their colors quite regardless of the cost.
There's an artist waiting ready at each bleak and dismal spot
To paint the flashing tulip or the meek forget-me-not.

May is lurking in the distance and her lap is filled with flowers,
And the choicest of her blossoms very shortly will be ours.
There is not a lane so dreary or a field so dark with gloom
But that soon will be resplendent with its little touch of bloom.
There's an artist keen and eager to make beautiful each scene
And remove with colors gorgeous every trace of of what has been.

Oh, the world is now in mourning; round about us all are spread
The ruins and the symbols of the winter that is dead.
But the bleak and barren picture very shortly now will pass,
For the halls of life are ready for their velvet rugs of grass;
And the painters now are waiting with their magic to replace
This dullness with a beauty that no mortal hand can trace.

The green is in the meadow and the blue is in the sky;
The chill of death is passing, He will shortly greet the eye.
We shall revel soon in colors only Nature's artists make
And the humblest plant that's sleeping unto beauty shall awake.
For there's not a leaf forgotten, not a twig neglected there.
And the tiniest of pansies shall the royal purple wear.

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