Alone

Poem of the Day:

Alone
by Edgar Albert Guest

Strange thoughts come to the man alone;
'Tis then, if ever, he talks with God,
And views himself as a single clod
In the soil of life where the souls are grown.
'Tis then he questions the why and where,
The start and end of his years and days,
And what is blame and what is praise,
And what is ugly and what is fair.

When a man has drawn from the busy throng
To the sweet retreat of the silent hours,
Low voices whisper of higher powers.
He catches the strain of some far-off song,
And the sham fades out and his eyes can see,
Not the man he is in the day's hot strife
And the greed and grind of a selfish life,
But the soul of the man he is to be.

He feels the throbbing of life divine,
And catches a glimpse of the greater plan;
He questions the purpose and work of man.
In the hours of silence his mind grows fine;
He seeks to learn what is kept unknown;
He turns from self and its garb of clay
And dwells on the soul and the higher way.
Strange thoughts come when a man's alone. 

All That Matters

Poem for the Day

All That Matters
by Edgar Albert Guest

When all that matters shall be written down
And the long record of our years is told,
Where sham, like flesh, must perish and grow cold;
When the tomb closes on our fair renown
And priest and layman, sage and motleyed clown
Must quit the places which they dearly hold,
What to our credit shall we find enscrolled?
And what shall be the jewels of our crown?
I fancy we shall hear to our surprise
Some little deeds of kindness, long forgot,
Telling our glory, and the brave and wise
Deeds which we boasted often, mentioned not.
God gave us life not just to buy and sell,
And all that matters is to live it well. 

Edgar Albert Guest

About Boys

Poem for the Day

About Boys
by Edgar Albert 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. 

A Warm House and a Ruddy Fire

Poem for the Day:

A Warm House and a Ruddy Fire
by Edgar Albert Guest

A warm house and a ruddy fire,
To what more can man aspire?
Eyes that shine with love aglow,
Is there more for man to know?
Whether home be rich or poor,
If contentment mark the door
He who finds it good to live
Has the best that life can give.
This the end of mortal strife!
Peace at night to sweeten life,
Rest when mind and body tire,
At contentment's ruddy fire.
Rooms where merry songs are sung,
Happy old and glorious young;
These, if perfect peace be known,
Both the rich and poor must own.
A warm house and a ruddy fire,
These the goals of all desire,
These the dream of every man
Since God spoke and life began. 

Edgar Albert Guest

A Toast to the Men

Poem for the Day

A Toast to the Men 

by Edgar Albert Guest

Here's to the men! Since Adam's time
They've always been the same;
Whenever anything goes wrong,
The woman is to blame.
From early morn to late at night,
The men fault-finders are;
They blame us if they oversleep,
Or if they miss a car.
They blame us if, beneath the bed,
Their collar buttons roll;
They blame us if the fire is out
Or if there is no coal.
They blame us if they cut themselves
While shaving, and they swear
That we're to blame if they decide
To go upon a tear.

Here's to the men, the perfect men!
Who never are at fault;
They blame us if they chance to get
The pepper for the salt.
They blame us if their business fails,
Or back a losing horse;
And when it rains on holidays
The fault is ours, of course.
They blame us when they fall in love,
And when they married get;
Likewise they blame us when they're sick,
And when they fall in debt.
For everything that crisscross goes
They say we are to blame;
But, after all, here's to the men,
We love them just the same! 

Edgar Albert Guest

A Suggestion

Poem for the Day

A Suggestion - Poem by Edgar Albert Guest

IF you've grumbled through the day
Without driving care away,
If in spite of all your grouches
Troubles on you have kept piling;
If regardless of your kicking
And your cussing, they're still sticking,
Why not switch your tactics, mister,
And try smiling?

If your frowning will not chase 'em,
Why not grin a bit, and face 'em?
If your worries seem to like it
When your meanness they are riling;
If your gloomy disposition
Doesn't better your condition,
Why not switch your methods, mister,
And try smiling?

If your constant whining, swearing,
Do not better your wayfaring;
If you find your foes no kinder
After them you've been reviling;
If they keep right on assailing,
Quite regardless of your wailing,
Why not switch your style of warfare
And try smiling? 

A Successful Dad

Poem for the Day:

A Successful Dad

OTHERS may laugh at my feeble endeavor
To capture life's prizes, and others may sneer;
The whole world may loudly declare I shall never
Be worthy the gunpowder to blow me from here.
It may be I 'm punk as a parlor reciter,
And when I begin grown-ups take to the woods;
But that baby of mine! I can always delight her,
She vows I 'm a wonder, she swears I 'm the goods.

It may be I can't keep a tune for a minute,
It may be my voice wanders far from the key;
It may be the nightingale, lark and the linnet
As songsters have quite a wide margin on me.
Caruso and others may take down the money
For singing their ditties to high-brows, but I
Have one little audience, cheerful and sunny,
Who 'd rather hear me than the music you buy.

She thinks I 'm a corker, a lalapaloosa,
She nightly applauds every stunt that I do;
She 'd rather hear me than your John Philip Sousa,
To her the old nonsense forever is new.
That baby of mine thinks I 'm great in whatever
I tackle, the moment we've finished our tea;
And though others may laugh at my feeble endeavor,
The praise of my little one satisfies me.

And so though the big world goes by me unheeding,
And never a grown-up takes notice of me;
Though into my work failure others are reading,
I 'm still a success to the babe on my knee.
When worn out and weary, my long day is ended,
And homeward I turn, I forget my distress;
For I know that my baby still thinks I am splendid,
To her, anyhow, I 'm a corking success! 

Edgar Albert Guest