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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.”
LIFE
LIFE is a jest;
Take the delight of it.
Laughter is best;
Sing through the night of it.
Swiftly the tear
And the hurt and the ache of it
Find us down here;
Life must be what we make of it.
Life is a song;
Let us dance to the thrill of it.
Grief s hours are long,
And cold is the chill of it.
Joy is man s need;
Let us smile for the sake of it.
This be our creed:
Life must be what we make of it.
Life is a soul;
The virtue and vice of it.
Strife for a goal,
And man s strength is the price of it.
Your life and mine,
The bare bread and the cake of it,
End in this line:
Life must be what we make of it.
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.