All That Matters ~ Poems by Edgar Guest

• “God Made This Day For Me”
• “Mother And The Baby ”
• A WARM HOUSE
• ACCOMPLISHED CARE
• AFRAID OF HIS DAD
• ALL THAT MATTERS
• All That Matters ~ Poems by Edgar Guest
• BREAD AND GRAVY
• BULB PLANTING TIME
• CLINCHING THE BOLT
• DENIAL
• EFFORT
• FORGETFUL PA
• GOD MADE THIS DAY FOR ME
• HIS OTHER CHANCE
• His Pa
• JUST HALF OF THAT, PLEASE
• JUST LIKE A MAN
• LITTLE FEET
• LIVING
• MOTHER AND THE BABY
• Motherhood
• OLD-FASHIONED LETTERS
• PLAY THE GAME
• PLAYING FOR KEEPS
• SOMEBODY ELSE
• SUCCESS
• TEN-FINGERED MICE
• THE BOY’S IDEAL
• THE CALL
• The Common Touch
• THE FAMILY DOCTOR
• THE FROSTING DISH
• The Frosting Dish :
• The Grate Fire
• THE HARDER PART
• THE HOMELY MAN
• The Joys We Miss
• THE KINDLY NEIGHBOR
• THE LONELY OLD FELLOW
• THE NEED
• THE NEWSPAPER MAN
• THE ONE IN TEN
• THE TEARS EXPRESSIVE
• THE THINGS THEY MUSTN’T TOUCH
• THE WORKMAN’S DREAM
• TO A YOUNG MAN
• UNCHANGEABLE MOTHER
• UNTIL SHE DIED
• WHEN THE YOUNG ARE GROWN
• When The Young Are Grown :
• WINDING THE CLOCK
• YOUTH

TO A YOUNG MAN

THE GREAT were once as you.
They whom men magnify to-day
Once groped and blundered on life s way,
Were fearful of themselves, and thought
By magic was men s greatness wrought.
They feared to try what they could do;
Yet Fame hath crowned with her success
The selfsame gifts that you possess.
The great were young as you,
Dreaming the very dreams you hold,
Longing yet fearing to be bold,
Doubting that they themselves possessed
The strength and skill for every test,
Uncertain of the truths they knew,
Not sure that they could stand to fate
With all the courage of the great.
Then came a day when they
Their first bold venture made,
Scorning to cry for aid.
They dared to stand to fight alone,
Took up the gauntlet life had thrown,
Charged full-front to the fray,
Mastered their fear of self, and then,
Learned that our great men are but men.

To A Young Man
From a charcoal draining by W. T. B E N D A.

Oh, youth, go forth and do!
You, too, to fame may rise;
You can be strong and wise.
Stand up to life and play the man
You can if you ll but think you can;
The great were once as you.
You envy them their proud success ?
Twas won with gifts that you possess.

THE ONE IN TEN

NINE passed him by with a hasty look,
Each bent on his eager way;
One glance at him was the most they took,
“Somebody stuck,” said they;
But it never occurred to the nine to heed
A stranger s plight and a stranger s need.
The tenth man looked at the stranded car,
And he promptly stopped his own.
“Let s see if I know what your troubles are,”
Said he in a cheerful tone;
“Just stuck in the mire. Here s a cable stout,
Hitch onto my bus and I ll pull you out.”
“A thousand thanks,” said the stranger then,
“For the debt that I owe you;
I ve counted them all and you re one in ten
Such a kindly deed to do.”
And the tenth man smiled and he answered then,
“Make sure that you ll be the one in ten.”
Are you one of the nine who pass men by
In this hasty life we live?
Do you refuse with a downcast eye
The help which you could give?
Or are you the one in ten whose creed
Is always to stop for the man in need?

A WARM HOUSE

AND A RUDDY FIRE
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.

LIVING

THE MISER thinks he s living when he s hoarding up his
gold;
The soldier calls it living when he s doing something
bold;
The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea,
And upon this very subject no two men of us agree.
But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along,
That living s made of laughter and good-fellowship
and song.
I wouldn t call it living to be always seeking gold,
To bank all the present gladness for the days when
I ll be old.
I wouldn t call it living to spend all my strength for
fame,
And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine
to claim.
I wouldn t for the splendor of the world set out to
roam,
And forsake my laughing children and the peace I
know at home.
Oh, the thing that I call living isn t gold or fame at
all!
It s fellowship and sunshine, and it s roses by the
wall.
It s evenings glad with music and a hearth-fire that s
ablaze,

“Living
From a painting by FRANK X. L E Y E N D E c K E R.

And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand
different ways.
It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a
goal;
It is everything that s needful in the shaping of a
soul.

EFFORT

HE BROUGHT me his report card from the teacher and
he said
He wasn t very proud of it and sadly bowed his head.
He was excellent in reading, but arithmetic, was fair,
And I noticed there were several “unsatisfactorys”
there;
But one little bit of credit which was given brought
me joy
He was “excellent in effort,” and I fairly hugged the
boy.
“Oh, it doesn t make much difference what is written
on your card,”
I told that little fellow, “if you re only trying hard.
The very goods and excellents are fine, I must
agree,
But the effort you are making means a whole lot more
to me;
And the thing that s most important when this card is
put aside
Is to know, in spite of failure, that to do your best
you ve tried.
“Just keep excellent in effort all the rest will come
to you.
There isn t any problem but some day you ll learn
to do,

And at last, when you grow older, you will come to
understand
That by hard and patient toiling men have risen to
command
And some day you will discover when a greater goal s
at stake
That better far than brilliance is the effort you will
make.”

SOMEBODY ELSE

SOMEBODY wants a new bonnet to wear;
Somebody wants a new dress;
Somebody needs a new bow for her hair,
And never the wanting grows less.
Oh, this is the reason I labor each day
And this is the joy of my tasks:
That deep in the envelope holding my pay
Is something that somebody asks.
I could go begging for water and bread
And travel the highways of ease,
But somebody wants a roof over his head
And stockings to cover his knees.
I could go shirking the duties of life
And laugh when necessity pleads,
But rather I stand to the toil and the strife
To furnish what somebody needs.
Somebody wants what I ve strength to supply,
And somebody s waiting for me
To come home to-night with money to buy
Her bread and her cake and her tea.
And as I am strong so her laughter will ring,
And as I am true she will smile;
It s the somebody else of the toiler or king
That makes all the struggle worth while.

“Somebody Else
From a charcoal draiving by M. L. BOWER.

Somebody needs all the courage I own,
And somebody s trust is in me;
For never a man who can go it alone,
Whatever his station may be.
So I stand to my task and I stand to my care,
And struggle to come to success,
For the ribbons to tie up somebody s hair,
And my somebody s pretty new dress.

THE LONELY OLD FELLOW

THE ROSES are bedded for winter, the tulips are planted
for spring;
The robins and martins have left us; there are only
the sparrows to sing.
The garden seems solemnly silent, awaiting its blan
kets of snow,
And I feel like a lonely old fellow with nowhere to
turn or to go.
All summer I ve hovered about them, all summer
they ve nodded at me;
I ve wandered and waited among them the first pink
of blossom to see;
I ve known them and loved and caressed them, and
now all their splendor has fled,
And the harsh winds of winter all tell me the friends
of my garden are dead.
I m a lonely old fellow, that s certain. All winter
with nothing to do
But sit by the window recalling the days when my
skies were all blue;
But my heart is not given to sorrow and never my
lips shall complain,
For winter shall pass and the sunshine shall give me
my roses again.
And so for the friends that have vanished, the friends
that they tell me are dead,
Who have traveled the road to God s Acres and sleep
where the willows are spread;
They have left me a lonely old fellow to sit here and
dream by the pane,
But I know, like the friends of my garden, we shall
all meet together again.

SUCCESS

THIS I would claim for my success not fame nor gold,
Nor the throng s changing cheers from day to day,
Not always ease and fortune s glad display,
Though all of these are pleasant joys to hold;
But I would like to have my story told
By smiling friends with whom I ve shared the way,
Who, thinking of me, nod their heads and say:
His heart was warm when other hearts were cold.
“None turned to him for aid and found it not,
His eyes were never blind to man s distress,
Youth and old age he lived, nor once forgot
The anguish and the ache of loneliness;
His name was free from stain or shameful blot
And in his friendship men found happiness.”

UNCHANGEABLE MOTHER

MOTHERS never change, I guess,
In their tender thoughtfulness.
Makes no difference that you grow
Up to forty years or so,
Once you cough, you ll find that she
Sees you as you used to be,
An* she wants to tell to you
All the things that you must do.
Just show symptoms of a cold,
She ll forget that you ve grown old.
Though there s silver in your hair,
Still you need a mother s care,
An she ll ask you things like these:
“You still wearing b. v. d. s?
Summer days have long since gone,
You should have your flannels on.”
Grown and married an maybe
Father of a family,
But to mother you are still
Just her boy when you are ill;
Just the lad that used to need
Plasters made of mustard seed;
An she thinks she has to see
That you get your flaxseed tea.
Mothers never change, I guess,
In their tender thoughtfulness.
All her gentle long life through
She is bent on nursing you;
An although you may be grown,
She still claims you for her own,
An to her you ll always be
Just a youngster at her knee.

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