by Edgar Guest
It’s the dull road that leads to the gay road;
the practise that leads to success;
the work road that leads to the play road;
it is trouble that breeds happiness.
It’s the hard work and merciless grinding
that purchases glory and fame;
it’s repeatedly doing, nor minding
the drudgery drear of the game.
It’s the passing up glamor or pleasure
for the sake of the skill we may gain,
and the giving up comfort or leisure
for the joys that we hope to attain.
It’s the hard road of trying and learning,
of toiling, uncheered and alone,
that wins us the prizes worth earning,
and leads us to goals we would own.
Ah, the lovely summer time! My flower pots are in full bloom. The young birds are leaving their nests and flitting around in the woods, which are incredibly lush and green. After several months of complaining we seriously lacked rain, now I have to report that it’s been raining almost every day for the past five weeks. We got another .7 of an inch Sunday evening in a wild storm, then another soaker yesterday left us with .6. Toadstools abound. 🙂
Life has returned to normal here, as my dear hubby came home last night after spending five days in Quebec. He’s on the French-literature proof-reading committee along with three other men from the Roxton Falls area and they find it’s good once a year to get together and devote several days to editing their latest project. I managed okay by myself, but am very happy to have him home again.
I found this poem in my files and hope it inspires you.
by Edgar Guest
Lord, let me do my little part
with courage and a willing heart.
Open my eyes that I may see,
however dark the day may be,
however rough the road I fare,
the purpose of the cross I bear.
Lord, let me wake when morning breaks
undaunted by my old mistakes.
Let me arise as comes the sun
glad for the task that must be done,
rejoicing I have strength to give
some beauty to the life I live.
Lord, let me hear the kindlier things,
the morning song the robin sings,
the laughter of the children near,
their merry whisperings in my ear,
my neighbor’s greeting at the gate,
let these shut out the speech of hate.
From his book The Light of Faith
© 1926 by The Reilly & Lee Co.
Wise words from Edgar A Guest
‘Tis better to have tried in vain
sincerely striving for a goal,
than to have lived upon the plain
an idle and a timid soul.
‘Tis better to have fought and spent
your courage, missing all applause,
than to have lived in smug content
and never ventured for a cause.
For he who tries and fails may be
the founder of a better day;
though never his the victory,
from him shall others learn the way.
From his book A Heap O’ Livin’
Tonight my contribution to National Poetry Month will be a verse by one of my favourite poets, Edgar Albert Guest. According to Wiki he was often referred to as “the People’s Poet” and penned some 11,000 verses in his time, most of them upbeat and inspirational.
He wrote lines the common people could understand; his subjects were about home & family, everyday life, and old-fashioned virtues. He often encouraged readers to be thankful, quit grumbling, and do their best whatever the circumstances —as the following poem illustrates. If Mr Guest sounds overly moralistic at times, we must remember that he lived from 1881-1959, saw the country go through two World Wars as well as the Stock Market crash and the Great Depression. Not an era to wimp out.
The Birch Tree
Out of a jutting rock, wind blown,
a birch tree braves the world alone.
A crevice in the granite first
captured the seed; a wave immersed
that tiny embryo. The sun
warmed it — and thus was life begun.
Scant food the passing breezes give
and yet that tree contrives to live!
Cruel the clutch of granite gray,
yet the brave roots from day to day
into the great stone deeper creep,
a surer hold on life to keep.
Twisted and bent some limbs appear,
but still undaunted year by year
those roots in cheerless channels sunk
courageously support the trunk
and green against the lake and sky,
a birch tree catches every eye!
Man thinks he knows what nature wills.
But much he plants the winter kills,
while far away from human care
and on a cliff by storms swept bare,
denied the commonest of needs,
a birch tree silently succeeds!
From his book, Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest,
©1934 by the Reilly & Lee Co
by Edgar Guest
The mind is that mysterious thing
which makes the toiler and the king.
It is the realm of thought where dwells
the nursery rhymes the father tells.
It is the source of all that gives
high color to the life he lives.
It starts the smile or shapes the frown,
it lifts man up or holds him down.
It marks the happy singing lad,
it marks the neighbor kind and glad,
and world wide over this we find —
a man is fashioned by his mind.
How strange it is that what we see
and seem to cherish tenderly
is not the outward garb of clay,
for all are formed the self-same way.
Not in the hands and legs and cheeks,
not in the common voice which speaks,
lies man’s identity on earth—
all these come with the gift of birth.
But love and friendship and delight
lie in a world that’s hid from sight.
The mind of all is master still
to fashion them for good or ill.
So men and women here are wrought
by this strange hidden power of thought
and each becomes in life the thing
the mind has long been fashioning.
Man’s body moves and eats and drinks
and but reflects the thoughts he thinks.
His every action leaves behind
merely the prompting of his mind.
Bad men have arms and legs and eyes.
That which we cherish or despise
and shapes each individual soul
is wholly in the mind’s control.
From the Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest
© 1934 by the Reilly & Lee Company
by Edgar Guest
I look into the faces of the people passing by,
the glad ones and the sad ones, and the lined with misery
and I wonder why the sorrow or the twinkle in the eye;
but the pale and weary faces are the ones that trouble me.
I saw a face this morning and time was when it was fair;
youth had brushed it bright with color in the distant long ago
and the princess of the lovely once had kept a temple there,
but the cheeks were pale with grieving and the eyes were dull with woe.
Who has done this thing, I wondered; what has wrought the ruin here?
Why are these sunken cheeks and pallid where the roses once were pink?
Why had beauty fled her palace; did some vandal hand appear?
Did her lover prove unfaithful or her husband take to drink?
Once the golden voice of promise whispered sweetly in her ears;
she was born to be a garden where the smile of love might lurk;
now the eyes that shone like jewels are but gateways for her tears
and she takes her place among us, toilers early bound for work.
Is it fate that writes so sadly, or the cruelty of man?
What foul deed has marred the parchment of a life so fair as this?
What has wrecked this lovely temple and destroyed the Maker’s plan,
raining blows on cheeks of beauty God had fashioned just to kiss?
Oh, the pale and weary faces of the people that I see
are the ones that seem to haunt me, and I pray to God above
that such cruel desolation shall not ever come to be
stamped forever in the future on the faces that I love.
From the book, Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest,
©1934 by the Reilly & Lee Co