Read Ebook: When Day is Done by Guest Edgar A Edgar Albert

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Ebook has 593 lines and 30602 words, and 12 pages

If I Had Youth

If I had youth I'd bid the world to try me; I'd answer every challenge to my will. And though the silent mountains should defy me, I'd try to make them subject to my skill. I'd keep my dreams and follow where they led me; I'd glory in the hazards which abound. I'd eat the simple fare privations fed me, And gladly make my couch upon the ground.

If I had youth I'd ask no odds of distance, Nor wish to tread the known and level ways. I'd want to meet and master strong resistance, And in a worth-while struggle spend my days. I'd seek the task which calls for full endeavor; I'd feel the thrill of battle in my veins. I'd bear my burden gallantly, and never Desert the hills to walk on common plains.

If I had youth no thought of failure lurking Beyond to-morrow's dawn should fright my soul. Let failure strike--it still should find me working With faith that I should some day reach my goal. I'd dice with danger--aye!--and glory in it; I'd make high stakes the purpose of my throw. I'd risk for much, and should I fail to win it, I would not ever whimper at the blow.

If I had youth no chains of fear should bind me; I'd brave the heights which older men must shun. I'd leave the well-worn lanes of life behind me, And seek to do what men have never done. Rich prizes wait for those who do not waver; The world needs men to battle for the truth. It calls each hour for stronger hearts and braver. This is the age for those who still have youth!

Looking Back

I might have been rich if I'd wanted the gold instead of the friendships I've made. I might have had fame if I'd sought for renown in the hours when I purposely played. Now I'm standing to-day on the far edge of life, and I'm just looking backward to see What I've done with the years and the days that were mine, and all that has happened to me.

I haven't built much of a fortune to leave to those who shall carry my name, And nothing I've done shall entitle me now to a place on the tablets of fame. But I've loved the great sky and its spaces of blue; I've lived with the birds and the trees; I've turned from the splendor of silver and gold to share in such pleasures as these.

I've given my time to the children who came; together we've romped and we've played, And I wouldn't exchange the glad hours spent with them for the money that I might have made. I chose to be known and be loved by the few, and was deaf to the plaudits of men; And I'd make the same choice should the chance come to me to live my life over again.

I've lived with my friends and I've shared in their joys, known sorrow with all of its tears; I have harvested much from my acres of life, though some say I've squandered my years. For much that is fine has been mine to enjoy, and I think I have lived to my best, And I have no regret, as I'm nearing the end, for the gold that I might have possessed.

God Made This Day for Me

Jes' the sort o' weather and jes' the sort of sky Which seem to suit my fancy, with the white clouds driftin' by On a sea o' smooth blue water. Oh, I ain't an egotist, With an "I" in all my thinkin', but I'm willin' to insist That the Lord who made us humans an' the birds in every tree Knows my special sort o' weather an' he made this day fer me.

This is jes' my style o' weather--sunshine floodin' all the place, An' the breezes from the eastward blowin' gently on my face; An' the woods chock full o' singin' till you'd think birds never had A single care to fret 'em or a grief to make 'em sad. Oh, I settle down contented in the shadow of a tree, An' tell myself right proudly that the day was made fer me.

It's my day, my sky an' sunshine, an' the temper o' the breeze-- Here's the weather I would fashion could I run things as I please: Beauty dancin' all around me, music ringin' everywhere, Like a weddin' celebration--why, I've plumb fergot my care An' the tasks I should be doin' fer the rainy days to be, While I'm huggin' the delusion that God made this day fer me.

The Grate Fire

I'm sorry for a fellow if he cannot look and see In a grate fire's friendly flaming all the joys which used to be. If in quiet contemplation of a cheerful ruddy blaze He sees nothing there recalling all his happy yesterdays, Then his mind is dead to fancy and his life is bleak and bare, And he's doomed to walk the highways that are always thick with care.

When the logs are dry as tinder and they crackle with the heat, And the sparks, like merry children, come a-dancing round my feet, In the cold, long nights of autumn I can sit before the blaze And watch a panorama born of all my yesterdays. I can leave the present burdens and the moment's bit of woe, And claim once more the gladness of the bygone long-ago.

No loved ones ever vanish from the grate fire's merry throng; No hands in death are folded and no lips are stilled to song. All the friends who were are living--like the sparks that fly about They come romping out to greet me with the same old merry shout, Till it seems to me I'm playing once again on boyhood's stage, Where there's no such thing as sorrow and there's no such thing as age.

I can be the care-free schoolboy! I can play the lover, too! I can walk through Maytime orchards with the old sweetheart I knew, I can dream the glad dreams over, greet the old familiar friends In a land where there's no parting and the laughter never ends. All the gladness life has given from a grate fire I reclaim, And I'm sorry for the fellow-who sees nothing there but flame.

The Homely Man

Looks as though a cyclone hit him-- Can't buy clothes that seem to fit him; An' his cheeks are rough like leather, Made for standin' any weather. Outwards he was fashioned plainly, Loose o' joint an' blamed ungainly, But I'd give a lot if I'd Been built half as fine inside.

Best thing I can tell you of him Is the way the children love him. Now an' then I get to thinkin' He's much like old Abe Lincoln; Homely like a gargoyle graven-- Worse'n that when he's unshaven; But I'd take his ugly phiz Jes' to have a heart like his.

I ain't over-sentimental, But old Blake is so blamed gentle An' so thoughtfull-like of others He reminds us of our mothers. Rough roads he is always smoothing An' his way is, Oh, so soothin', That he takes away the sting When your heart is sorrowing.

Children gather round about him Like they can't get on without him. An' the old depend upon him, Pilin' all their burdens on him, Like as though the thing that grieves 'em Has been lifted when he leaves 'em. Homely? That can't be denied, But he's glorious inside.

The Joys We Miss

There never comes a lonely day but that we miss the laughing ways Of those who used to walk with us through all our happy yesterdays. We seldom miss the earthly great--the famous men that life has known-- But, as the years go racing by, we miss the friends we used to own.

The chair wherein he used to sit recalls the kindly father true For, Oh, so filled with fun he was, and, Oh, so very much he knew! And as we face the problems grave with which the years of life are filled. We miss the hand which guided us and miss the voice forever stilled.

We little guessed how much he did to smooth our pathway day by day, How much of joy he brought to us, how much of care he brushed away; But now that we must tread alone the thorough-fare of life, we find How many burdens we were spared by him who was so brave and kind.

Death robs the living, not the dead--they sweetly sleep whose tasks are done; But we are weaker than before who still must live and labor on. For when come care and grief to us, and heavy burdens bring us woe, We miss the smiling, helpful friends on whom we leaned long years ago.

We miss the happy, tender ways of those who brought us mirth and cheer; We never gather round the hearth but that we wish our friends were near; For peace is born of simple things--a kindly word, a goodnight kiss, The prattle of a babe, and love--these are the vanished joys we miss.

The Fellowship of Books

I care not who the man may be, Nor how his tasks may fret him, Nor where he fares, nor how his cares And troubles may beset him, If books have won the love of him, Whatever fortune hands him, He'll always own, when he's alone, A friend who understands him.

Though other friends may come and go, And some may stoop to treason, His books remain, through loss or gain, And season after season The faithful friends for every mood, His joy and sorrow sharing, For old time's sake, they'll lighter make The burdens he is bearing.

Oh, he has counsel at his side, And wisdom for his duty, And laughter gay for hours of play, And tenderness and beauty, And fellowship divinely rare, True friends who never doubt him, Unchanging love, and God above, Who keeps good books about him.

When Sorrow Comes

When sorrow comes, as come it must, In God a man must place his trust. There is no power in mortal speech The anguish of his soul to reach, No voice, however sweet and low, Can comfort him or ease the blow.

He cannot from his fellowmen Take strength that will sustain him then. With all that kindly hands will do, And all that love may offer, too, He must believe throughout the test That God has willed it for the best.

We who would be his friends are dumb; Words from our lips but feebly come; We feel, as we extend our hands, That one Power only understands And truly knows the reason why So beautiful a soul must die.

We realize how helpless then Are all the gifts of mortal men. No words which we have power to say Can take the sting of grief away-- That Power which marks the sparrow's fall Must comfort and sustain us all.

When sorrow comes, as come it must, In God a man must place his trust. With all the wealth which he may own, He cannot meet the test alone, And only he may stand serene Who has a faith on which to lean.

Golf Luck

As a golfer I'm not one who cops the money; I shall always be a member of the dubs; There are times my style is positively funny; I am awkward in my handling of the clubs. I am not a skillful golfer, nor a plucky, But this about myself I proudly say-- When I win a hole by freaky stroke or lucky, I never claim I played the shot that way.

There are times, despite my blundering behavior, When fortune seems to follow at my heels; Now and then I play supremely in her favor, And she lets me pull the rankest sort of steals; She'll give to me the friendliest assistance, I'll jump a ditch at times when I should not, I'll top the ball and get a lot of distance-- But I don't claim that's how I played the shot.

I've hooked a ball when just that hook I needed, And wondered how I ever turned the trick; I've thanked my luck for what a friendly tree did, Although my fortune made my rival sick; Sometimes my shots turn out just as I planned 'em, The sort of shots I usually play, But when up to the cup I chance to land 'em, I never claim I played 'em just that way.

There's little in my game that will commend me; I'm not a shark who shoots the course in par; I need good fortune often to befriend me; I have my faults and know just what they are. I play golf in a desperate do-or-die way, And into traps and trouble oft I stray, But when by chance the breaks are coming my way, I do not claim I played the shots that way.

Contradictin' Joe

Heard of Contradictin' Joe? Most contrary man I know. Always sayin', "That's not so."

Nothing's ever said, but he Steps right up to disagree-- Quarrelsome as he can be.

If you start in to recite All the details of a fight, He'll butt in to set you right.

Start a story that is true, He'll begin correctin' you-- Make you out a liar, too!

Mention time o' year or day, Makes no difference what you say, Nothing happened just that way.

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