Many people have written about the joys of coming home, of rediscovering the treasures you were taking for granted, and one wise writer once declared that “HOME” is the nicest word. Yes, it was great to visit dear friends elsewhere, but now we are home again, and very glad to be here. 🙂
The Joy of Getting Home
by Edgar A. Guest
The joy of getting home again is the sweetest thrill I know. Though travelers by ship or train are smiling when they go, the eye is never quite so bright, the smile so wide and true, as when they pass the last home light and all their wandering’s through.
Oh, I have journeyed down to sea and traveled far by rail, but naught was quite so fair to me as that last homeward trail. Oh, nothing was in London town, or Paris gay, or Rome with all its splendor and renown so good to see as home.
‘Tis good to take these lovely trips, ‘tis good to get away, there’s pleasure found on sailing ships, but travel as you may you’ll learn as most of us have learned, wherever you may roam, you’re happiest when your face is turned toward the lights of home.
Today I saw the sun come up, like Neptune from the sea; I saw him light a cliff with gold and wake a distant tree. I saw him shake his shaggy head and laugh the night away and toss unto a sleeping world another golden day.
The waves, which had been black and cold, came in with silver crests; I saw the sunbeams gently wake the song birds in their nests. The slow-retreating night slipped back and, strewn on field and lawn, on every blade of grass I saw the jewels of the dawn.
Never was a monarch ushered in with such a cavalcade, no hero bringing victory home has seen such wealth displayed. In honor of the coming day the humblest plant and tree stood on the curbstone of the world in radiant livery.
Pageants of splendor man may plan, with robes of burnished gold; on horses from Arabia may prance the knight of old; heralds on silver horns may blow, and kings come riding in, but I have seen God’s pageantry — I’ve watched a day begin!
Blue in the sky and green in the tree and a bird singing anthems of gladness for me, a breeze soft and fair as a little girl’s hair, with nothing that’s ugly or base anywhere. A world that’s swept clean of the doubtful and mean, with nowhere a hint of the care that has been.
I stand at my gate with the sun in my face, and I thank the good Lord for such beauty and grace. Time was, I declare, when the snows drifted there, and those boughs with their blossoms were ugly and bare. Now the sin and the wrong of the cold days and long are lost in life’s splendor of sunshine and song.
God makes it all right in good time, I believe – we doubt when we’re troubled, we doubt when we grieve; like a stark, barren tree looms the wrong which we see. Hurt, anguish and care hide the splendor to be but at last from the pain rises beauty again, and there’s never a bough that has suffered in vain.
Perhaps at the last, ‘neath a lovelier sun, when the anguish and hurt of life’s growing is done, we may rise from our pain showing never a stain of the cares of the years which fell on us like rain. When the soul is set free all the flaws we now see may be lost in the joy of the new life to be.
Janet has a pair of rabbits just as white as winter’s snow which she begged of me to purchase just a week or two ago. She found the man who raised them and she took me over there to show me all his bunnies, at a dollar for a pair, and she pleaded to possess them so I looked at her and said: “Will you promise every morning to make sure that they are fed?”
She promised she would love them and she promised she would see they had lettuce leaves to nibble and were cared for tenderly. And she looked at me astounded when I said, “I should regret buying pretty bunnies for you if to feed them you’d forget. Once there was a little fellow, just about as old as you who forgot to feed the rabbits which he’d owned a week or two.”
“He forgot to feed his rabbits!” said my Janet in dismay. “Yes,” I said, “as I remember, he’d go scampering off to play. And his mother or his daddy later on would go to see if his pretty little bunnies had been cared for properly, and they’d shake their heads in sorrow and remark it seems too bad that rabbits should belong to such a thoughtless little lad.”
“Who was the boy?” she asked me, and the truth to her I told, “A little boy you’ve never seen who now is gray and old. Some folks say you’re just like him,” but she looked at me and said: “I won’t forget my bunnies! I’ll make sure that they are fed!” And she bravely kept her promise for about a week or two, but today I fed the rabbits, as I knew I’d have to do.
I wonder if this verse was Mr Guest’s answer to Rudyard Kipling’s famous verse, IF? Read IF here.
by Edgar 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 whatever you do!