On A Certain Religious Argument

On A Certain Religious Argument - Poem by Edgar Albert Guest

Argue it pro and con as you will,
And flout each other with words,
But the rose will bloom and the summer still
Will bring us the song of birds.

How was He born who came to earth,
With the Godlight in His eyes?
Wrangle and quarrel about His birth,
And yet you shall not be wise.

And what does it matter? The clover blows
And the rose blooms on the tree,
And only the God in heaven knows
How these things come to be.

You take the flower though you cannot say
Why this is red or white,
You accept the warmth of the sun by day
And the light of the stars by night.

You joy in a thousand mysteries
Which your wisdom can't explain,
The green of the grass and the rolling seas
And the gold of the harvest grain.

So why do you bother your heads at all?
And why does your faith grow dim?
You take the flower on the garden wall,
So why will you not take Him? 

Old Years and New

Poem for the Day

Old Years and New
by Edgar Albert Guest

Old years and new years, all blended into one,
The best of what there is to be, the best of what is gone- 
Let's bury all the failures in the dim and dusty past
And keep the smiles of friendship and laughter to the last.

Old years and new years, life's in the making still;
We haven't come to glory yet, but there's the hope we will;
The dead old year was twelve months long, but now from it we're free,
And what's one year of good or bad to all the years to be?

Old years and new years, we need them one and all
To reach the dome of character and build its sheltering wall;
Past failures tried the souls of us, but if their tests we stood.
The sum of what we are to be may yet be counted good.

Old years and new years, with all their pain and strife,
Are but the bricks and steel and stone with which we fashion life;
So put the sin and shame away, and keep the fine and true,
And on the glory of the past let's build the better new. 

Old Mister Laughter

Poem for the Day

Old Mister Laughter
by Edgar Albert Guest

Old Mister Laughter
Comes a-grinnin' down the way,
Singin': 'Never mind your troubles,
For they'll surely pass away.'
Singin': 'Now the sun is shinin'
An' there's roses everywhere;
To-morrow will be soon enough
To fret about your care.'

Old Mister Laughter
Comes a-grinnin' at my door,
Singin': 'Don't go after money
When you've got enough and more.'
Singin': 'Laugh with me this mornin'
An' be happy while you may.
What's the use of riches
If they never let you play?'

Old Mister Laughter
Comes a-grinnin' all the time,
Singin' happy songs o' gladness
In a good old-fashioned rhyme.
Singin': 'Keep the smiles a-goin',
Till they write your epitaph,
And don't let fame or fortune
Ever steal away your laugh.' 

Old Friends

Poem for the Day

Old Friends
by Edgar Albert Guest

I do not say new friends are not considerate and true, 
Or that their smiles ain't genuine, but still I'm tellin' you 
That when a feller's heart is crushed and achin' with the pain, 
And teardrops come a-splashin' down his cheeks like summer rain, 
Becoz his grief an' loneliness are more than he can bear, 
Somehow it's only old friends, then, that really seem to care. 
The friends who've stuck through thick an' thin, who've known you, good an' bad, 
Your faults an' virtues, an' have seen the struggles you have had, 
When they come to you gentle-like an' take your hand an' say: 
'Cheer up! we're with you still,' it counts, for that's the old friends' way. 

The new friends may be fond of you for what you are today; 
They've only known you rich, perhaps, an' only seen you gay; 
You can't tell what's attracted them; your station may appeal; 
Perhaps they smile on you because you're doin' something real; 
But old friends who have seen you fail, an' also seen you win, 
Who've loved you either up or down, stuck to you, thick or thin, 
Who knew you as a budding youth, an' watched you start to climb, 
Through weal an' woe, still friends of yours an' constant all the time, 
When trouble comes an' things go wrong, I don't care what you say, 
They are the friends you'll turn to, for you want the old friends' way. 

The new friends may be richer, an' more stylish, too, but when 
Your heart is achin' an' you think your sun won't shine again, 
It's not the riches of new friends you want, it's not their style, 
It's not the airs of grandeur then, it's just the old friend's smile, 
The old hand that has helped before, stretched out once more to you, 
The old words ringin' in your ears, so sweet an', Oh, so true! 
The tenderness of folks who know just what your sorrow means, 
These are the things on which, somehow, your spirit always leans. 
When grief is poundin' at your breast — the new friends disappear 
An' to the old ones tried an' true, you turn for aid an' cheer. 

Now And Then

Poem for the Day

Now and Then
by Edgar Albert Guest

Why not think a decent thought,
Now and then?
Why not ponder, as you ought, 
Now and then? 
Get your mind out of the mire, 
To the higher things aspire, 
Claim a loftier desire, 
Now and then.

Think of something else than gold,
Now and then! 
Think of things not bought and sold, 
Now and then;
Turn from sordid deeds and mean, 
In your acts your thoughts are seen, 
Think of something sweet and clean, 
Now and then.

Think of good instead of bad,
Now and then; 
Of the bright things, not the sad, 
Now and then;
If you think the way you should, 
As you could think if you would, 
You would do a lot of good, 
Now and then. 

Nothing Unusual

Poem for the Day

Nothing Unusual
by Edgar Albert Guest

They lived together thirty years,
I Through storm and sunshine, weal and woe;
They shared each other's hopes and fears — 
She still his sweetheart, he her beau; 
She, proud of him, though he was not 
A millionaire, or known to fame. 
The wife — contented with her lot,
The man — well, very much the same.

He never thought she ought to be
Always agreeable and gay; 
And she did not expect that he
Would never have a grouchy day. 
She did not think that he was one
Without a single fault or whim, 
Nor did she try a paragon
Of goodness to make out of him.

But, hand in hand, they went along
Through all the moods that humans know; 
Displeasure came when things went wrong,
She still his sweetheart, he her beau. 
Frowns, smiles, delight, despair, they knew,
With love always to dry their tears, 
Just simple human folks, those two
Who lived together thirty years. 

Not a Money Debt

Poem for the Day

Not a Money Debt
by Edgar Albert Guest

You can't pay back in dollars what your father does for you,
You can't repay in kindness all the tenderness he shows; 
You little know the perils he has safely brought you through,
And the wealth of Rockefeller this account would never close.

Just remember, as you travel, now alone upon your way 
That your only chance of squaring up the debt you owe your dad 
Is to strive with all your courage to grow better every day
And become the man he dreamed of when you were a little lad. 

No Use Sighin'

Poem for the Day

No Use Sighin'
by Edgar Albert Guest

No use frettin' when the rain comes down,
No use grievin' when the gray clouds frown,
No use sighin' when the wind blows strong,
No use wailin' when the world's all wrong;
Only thing that a man can do
Is work an' wait till the sky gets blue.

No use mopin' when you lose the game,
No use sobbin' if you're free from shame,
No use cryin' when the harm is done,
Just keep on tryin' an' workin' on;
Only thing for a man to do,
Is take the loss an' begin anew.

No use weepin' when the milk is spilled,
No use growlin' when your hopes are killed,
No use kickin' when the lightnin' strikes
Or the floods come along an' wreck your dykes;
Only thing for a man right then
Is to grit his teeth an' start again.

For it's how life is an' the way things are
That you've got to face if you travel far;
An' the storms will come an' the failures, too,
An' plans go wrong spite of all you do;
An' the only thing that will help you win,
Is the grit of a man and a stern set chin. 

No Room For Hate

Poem for the Day

No Room for Hate
by Edgar Albert Guest

We have room for the man with an honest dream,
With his heart on fire and his eyes agleam;
We have room for the man with a purpose true,
Who comes to our shores to start life anew,
But we haven't an inch of space for him
Who comes to plot against life and limb.

We have room for the man who will learn our ways,
Who will stand by our Flag in its troubled days;
We have room for the man who will till the soil,
Who will give his hands to a fair day's toil,
But we haven't an inch of space to spare
For the breeder of hatred and black despair.

We have room for the man who will neighbor here,
Who will keep his hands and his conscience clear;
We have room for the man who'll respect our laws
And pledge himself to our country's cause,
But we haven't an inch of land to give
To the alien breed that will alien live.

Against the vicious we bar the gate!
This is no breeding ground for hate.
This is the land of the brave and free
And such we pray it shall always be.
We have room for men who will love our flag,
But none for the friends of the scarlet rag. 

No Place to Go

Poem for the Day

This has to be one of my favorites. Some evenings, Nita and I simply agree that "boring" is good.

No Place To Go
by Edgar Albert Guest

The happiest nights
I ever know
Are those when I've
No place to go,
And the missus says
When the day is through:
'To-night we haven't
A thing to do.'

Oh, the joy of it,
And the peace untold
Of sitting 'round
In my slippers old,
With my pipe and book
In my easy chair,
Knowing I needn't
Go anywhere.

Needn't hurry
My evening meal
Nor force the smiles
That I do not feel,
But can grab a book
From a near-by shelf,
And drop all sham
And be myself.

Oh, the charm of it
And the comfort rare;
Nothing on earth
With it can compare;
And I'm sorry for him
Who doesn't know
The joy of having
No place to go. 

Myself

Poem for the Day

Myself
by Edgar Albert Guest

I have to live with myself and so 
I want to be fit for myself to know.
I want to be able as days go by,
always to look myself straight in the eye;


I don't want to stand with the setting sun 
and hate myself for the things I have done.
I don't want to keep on a closet shelf 
a lot of secrets about myself 
and fool myself as I come and go 
into thinking no one else will ever know 
the kind of person I really am, 


I don't want to dress up myself in sham.
I want to go out with my head erect 
I want to deserve all men's respect;
but here in the struggle for fame and wealth 
I want to be able to like myself. 


I don't want to look at myself and know that 
I am bluster and bluff and empty show.
I never can hide myself from me;
I see what others may never see;
I know what others may never know, 
I never can fool myself and so, 
whatever happens I want to be 
self respecting and conscience free. 

My Soul and I

My Soul And I - Poem by Edgar Albert Guest

When winter shuts a fellow in and turns the lock upon his door,
There's nothing else for him to do but sit and dream his bygones o'er.
And then before an open fire he smokes his pipe, while in the blaze
He seems to see a picture show of all his happy yesterdays.
No ordinary film is that which memory throws upon the screen,
But one in which his hidden soul comes out and can be plainly seen.

Now, I've been dreaming by the grate. I've seen myself the way I am,
Stripped bare of affectation's garb and wisdom's pose and folly's sham.
I've seen my soul and talked with it, and learned some things I never
knew.
I walk about the world as one, but I express the wish of two.
I've come to see the soul of me is wiser than my selfish mind,
For it has safely led me through the tangled paths I've left behind.

I should have sold myself for gold when I was young long years ago,
But for my soul which whispered then: 'You love your home and garden so,
You never could be quite content in palace walls. Once rise to fame
And you will lose the gentler joys which now so eagerly you claim.
I want to walk these lanes with you and keep the comradeship of trees,
Let you and I be happy here, nor seek life's gaudy luxuries.'

Mine is a curious soul, I guess; it seemed so, smiling in my dreams;
It keeps me close to little folks and birds and flowers and running
streams,
To Mother and her friends and mine; and though no fortune we possess,
The years that we have lived and loved have all been rich with happiness.
I'm glad the snowdrifts shut me in, for I have had a chance to see
How fortunate I've been to have that sort of soul to counsel me. 

My Religion

Poem for the Day

My Religion
by Edgar Albert Guest

My religion's lovin' God, who made us, one and all,
Who marks, no matter where it be, the humble sparrow's fall;
An' my religion's servin' Him the very best I can
By not despisin' anything He made, especially man!
It's lovin' sky an' earth an' sun an' birds an' flowers an' trees,
But lovin' human beings more than any one of these.

I ain't no hand at preachin' an' I can't expound the creeds;
I fancy every fellow's faith must satisfy his needs
Or he would hunt for something else. An' I can't tell the why
An' wherefore of the doctrines deep- and what's more I don't try.
I reckon when this life is done and we can know His plan,
God won't be hard on anyone who's tried to be a man.

My religion doesn't hinge on some one rite or word;
I hold that any honest prayer a mortal makes is heard;
To love a church is well enough, but some get cold with pride
An' quite forget their fellowmen for whom the Saviour died;
I fancy he best worships God, when all is said an' done,
Who tries to be, from day to day, a friend to everyone.

If God can mark the sparrow's fall, I don't believe He'll fail
To notice us an' how we act when doubts an' fears assail;
I think He'll hold what's in our hearts above what's in our creeds,
An' judge all our religion here by our recorded deeds;
An' since man is God's greatest work since life on earth began,
He'll get to Heaven, I believe, who helps his fellowman. 

Memorial Day

The finest tribute we can pay
Unto our hero dead to-day,
Is not a rose wreath, white and red,
In memory of the blood they shed;
It is to stand beside each mound,
Each couch of consecrated ground,
And pledge ourselves as warriors true
Unto the work they died to do.

Poem for the Day

Memorial Day
by Edgar Albert Guest

Into God's valleys where they lie
At rest, beneath the open sky,
Triumphant now o'er every foe,
As living tributes let us go.
No wreath of rose or immortelles
Or spoken word or tolling bells
Will do to-day, unless we give
Our pledge that liberty shall live.

Our hearts must be the roses red
We place above our hero dead;
To-day beside their graves we must
Renew allegiance to their trust;
Must bare our heads and humbly say
We hold the Flag as dear as they,
And stand, as once they stood, to die
To keep the Stars and Stripes on high.

The finest tribute we can pay
Unto our hero dead to-day
Is not of speech or roses red,
But living, throbbing hearts instead,
That shall renew the pledge they sealed
With death upon the battlefield:
That freedom's flag shall bear no stain
And free men wear no tyrant's chain. 

Making The House a Home

Poem for the Day

Making The House a Home
by Edgar Albert Guest

Here's our story, page by page,
Happy youth and middle-age,
Smile and tear-drop, weal and woe
Such as all who live must know- 
Here it is all written down,
Not for glory or renown,
But the hope when we are gone
Those who bravely follow on
Meeting care and pain and grief
Will not falter in belief. 

Ma and Me

Poem for the Day

(Especially for Nita)

Ma and Me
by Edgar Albert Guest

There've been times we'd disagree 
Somethin' awful, Ma an' me; 
Times when I would bang the door 
Never to come back no more, 
An' go stompin' down the street 
Sayin' things I won't repeat; 
Vowin' that the only course 
For us two was a di-vorce. 
Then when it come time for tea 
We'd make up, would Ma an' me.

We've had many a lively spat
Arguin' over this an' that.
There've been times when Ma got mad,
Said enough o' me she'd had,
Tired o' listenin' to me jaw;
Reckoned that she'd go t' law,
Tell the judge her tale o' woe,
An' my own way I could go.
Then the children we would see
An' we'd laugh, would Ma an' me.

Ma an' me ain't angels quite, 
Neither of us does things right. 
She's got reason fer complaint, 
She ain't married to a saint; 
Guess I've tried her patience more 
Than the children round the door; 
An' at times, by all that's fine, 
Ma has certainly tried mine. 
But together still are we, 
Pals an' lovers — Ma an' me.

We've just plodded on the way 
Hand in hand from day to day, 
Workin' for the greatest good, 
Doin' just the best we could. 
Gettin' mad, as people will, 
But remainin' faithful still. 
An' we've never gone to bed 
Till we took back all we said, 
Kissed, an' vowed we'd always be 
Pals an' sweethearts—Ma an' me.