-
A poem that is written at the beginning of his book, Breakfast Table Chat:
- A Book
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
A book of verse is like a child -
Its moods and fancies vary;
At times its ways are meek and mild,
At other times contrary.
And like a child, it sometimes shows
A charm that naught can smother;
For that, of course, the credit goes
Entirely to its mother.
So readers, take my little lad,
And may he be no bother;
And when you find that he is bad,
Just blame it on his father. -
The Pathway of the Living
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
The pathway of the living is our ever-present care.
Let us do our best to smooth it and to make it bright and fair;
Let us travel it with kindness, let's be careful as we tread,
And give unto the living what we'd offer to the dead.
The pathway of the living we can beautify and grace;
We can line it deep with roses and make earth a happier place.
But we've done all mortals can do, when our prayers are softly said
For the souls of those that travel o'er the pathway of the dead.
The pathway of the living all our strength and courage needs,
There we ought to sprinkle favors, there we ought to sow our deeds,
There our smiles should be the brightest, there our kindest words be said,
For the angels have the keeping of the pathway of the dead. -
My Goals
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
A little braver when the skies are gray,
A little stronger when the road seems long,
A little more of patience through the day,
And not so quick to magnify a wrong.
A little kinder, both of thought and deed,
A little gentler with the old and weak,
Swifter to sense another's pressing need,
And not so fast the hurtful phrase to speak.
These are my goals - not flung beyond my power,
Not dreams of glory, beautiful but vain,
Not the great heights where buds of genius flower,
But simple splendors which I ought to gain.
These I can do and be from day to day
Along the humble pathway where I plod,
So that at last when I am called away
I need not make apologies to God. -
My Creed
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
To live as gently as I can;
To be, no matter where, a man;
To take what comes of good or ill
And cling to faith and honor still;
To do my best, and let that stand
The record of my brain and hand;
And then, should failure come to me,
Still work and hope for victory.
To have no secret place wherein
I stoop unseen to shame or sin;
To be the same when I’m alone
As when my every deed is known;
To live undaunted, unafraid
Of any step that I have made;
To be without pretense or sham
Exactly what men think I am.
To leave some simple mark behind
To keep my having lived in mind;
If enmity to aught I show,
To be an honest, generous foe,
To play my little part, nor whine
That greater honors are not mine.
This, I believe, is all I need
For my philosophy and creed. -
The Weaver
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
The patter of rain on the roof,
The glint of the sun on the rose;
Of life, these the warp and the woof,
The weaving that everyone knows.
Now grief with its consequent tear,
Now joy with its luminous smile;
The days are the threads of the year--
Is what I am weaving worth while?
What pattern have I on my loom?
Shall my bit of tapestry please?
Am I working with gray threads of gloom?
Is there faith in the figures I seize?
When my fingers are lifeless and cold,
And the threads I no longer can weave
Shall there be there for men to behold
One sign of the things I believe?
God sends me the gray days and rare,
The threads from his bountiful skein,
And many, as sunshine, are fair.
And some are as dark as the rain.
And I think as I toil to express
My life through the days slipping by,
Shall my tapestry prove a success?
What sort of a weaver am I?
Am I making the most of the red
And the bright strands of luminous gold?
Or blotting them out with the thread
By which all men's failure is told?
Am I picturing life as despair,
As a thing men shall shudder to see,
Or weaving a bit that is fair
That shall stand as the record of me? -
The Call
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
Joy stands on the hilltops, beckoning to me,
Urging me to journey up where I can see
Blue skies ever smiling, cool green fields below,
Hear the songs of children still untouched by woe.
Joy stands on the hilltops, urging me to stay,
Spite of toil and trouble, to life's rugged way,
Holding out a promise of a life serene
When the steeps I've mastered lying now between.
Joy stands on the hilltops, smiling down at me,
Urging me to clamber up where I can see
Over toil and trouble far beyond despair,
And I answer smiling: some day I'll be there. -
Duty
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
To do your little bit of toil,
To play life's game with head erect;
To stoop to nothing that would soil
Your honor or your self-respect;
To win what gold and fame you can,
But first of all to be a man.
To know the bitter and the sweet,
The sunshine and the days of rain;
To meet both victory and defeat,
Nor boast too loudly nor complain;
To face whatever fates befall
And be a man throughout it all.
To seek success in honest strife,
But not to value it so much
That, winning it, you go through life
Stained by dishonor's scarlet touch.
What goal or dream you choose, pursue,
But be a man whate'er you do! -
The Little Home
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
The little house is not too small
To shelter friends who come to call.
Though low the roof and small its space
It holds the Lord's abounding grace,
And every simple room may be
Endowed with happy memory.
The little house, severly plain,
A wealth of beauty may contain.
Within it those who dwell may find
High faith which makes for peace of mind,
And that sweet understanding which
Can make the poorest cottage rich.
The little house can hold all things
From which the soul's contentment springs.
'Tis not too small for love to grow,
For all the joys that mortals know,
For mirth and song and that delight
Which make the humblest dwelling bright. -
About Boys
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
Show me the boy who never threw
A stone at someone's cat;
Or never hurled a snowball swift
At someone's high silk hat.
Who never ran away from school,
To seek the swimming hole;
Or slyly from a neighbor's yard
Green apples never stole.
Show me the boy who never broke
A pane of window glass;
Who never disobeyed the sign
That says: "Keep off the grass."
Who never did a thousand things,
That grieve us sore to tell;
And I'll show you a little boy
Who must be far from well. -
Money
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
Does money bring men gladness?
Yes, at times!
It also brings men sadness
And to crimes.
Earned well, it is a pleasure,
None denies;
But in the love of treasure
Danger lies.
Who grasps for it in blindness,
Foul or fair,
Sells out to bleak unkindness
And despair.
By money friends are parted;
Hatred sown;
For money, marble-hearted
Men have grown.
Money’s important. All require it
Til life is o’er
But it destroys men who desire it
And nothing more. -
The Home
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
Write it down that here I labored,
Here I sang and laughed and neighbored;
Here’s the sum of all my story,
Here’s my fortune and my glory;
These four walls and friendly door
Mark the goal I struggled for.
Never mind its present worth,
Here’s one hundred feet of earth
Where the passerby can see
Every dream which came to me.
Write it down: my life uncloses
Here among these budding roses;
In this patch of lawn I’ve tended,
Here is all I’ve counted splendid;
Here’s the goal that’s held me true
To the tasks I’ve had to do.
Here for all the world to scan
Is my secret thought and plan;
Through the long years gone before,
This is what I struggled for.
Write it down, when I have perished:
Here is everything I’ve cherished;
That these walls should glow with beauty
Spurred my lagging soul to duty;
That there should be gladness here
Kept my toiling year by year.
Here in phlox and marigold
Is my every purposed told;
Every thought and every act
Were to keep this home intact. -
A Beautiful Day
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
"A beautiful day," you say to me,
For the sun is high and the skies are blue;
The robin sings in the chestnut tree
A song to his mate on the chimney flue.
A beautiful day! What makes it so?
The gentle sun and the fleecy skies?
They are not all that are needed, no!
There is more than that where beauty lies.
"A beautiful day," you say to me;
Have you helped a friend who was falling down?
Have you jogged a baby upon your knee
And laughed him away to London town?
Have unkind words on your tongue been stilled?
Have you brushed another's tears away?
Have you left any promises unfufilled?
Have you helped to make it a beautiful day?
A beautiful day! for the sun is out,
A beautiful day we all declare;
But have we scattered our clouds of doubt
Or lightened another's load of care?
God has sent us these beautiful days,
The skies of blue and the kindly sun;
But as we travel along our ways.
What beautiful deed can we say we've done?
More Poems About Books
More Poems About Life
More Christian Poems
More Inspirational Poems
More Poems Of Encouragement
More Poems About Joy
More Success Poems
More Poems About Home
More Poems About Children Growing Up
Related: Money Quotes
Related Home Quotes
Related Poems About Helping Others