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 Guest 
 Dozen New Poems
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ly 
 Edgar A. Quest
 
 A DOZEN 
 NEW POEMS 
 
 by 
 EDGAR A. GUEST 
 
 With 
 
 by 
 FRANK X. LEYENDECKER 
 
 W. T. B E N D A 
 HARVEY EMRICH 
 
 and 
 M. L. BOWER 
 
 THE REILLY & LEE CO. 
 Chicago
 
 Copyright, 1920, 
 by 
 
 THE REILLY & LEE Co. 
 
 Illustrations Copyrighted, 1920, 
 
 by The International Magazine Company 
 
 and reproduced by special 
 
 arrangement with 
 the Cosmopolitan Magazine
 
 PS 
 
 - 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 that moment's bit 
 
 of woe, 
 And claim once more the gladness of the bygone long- 
 
 ago. 
 
 There are no absent faces in 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; 
 
 [7] 
 
 1048461
 
 They come romping out to greet me with the same 
 old merry shout, 
 
 Till it seems to me I'm playing once again on boy- 
 hood'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 re- 
 claim, 
 
 And I'm sorry for the fellow who can only see the flame.
 
 from a drawing by W. T. B E K o A
 
 WHEN MOTHER'S 
 SEWING BUTTONS ON 
 
 WHEN mother's sewing buttons on 
 Their little garments, one by one, 
 I settle down contented there 
 And watch her in her rocking chair. 
 She's at the task she likes the best 
 Each little waist and undervest 
 She fondles in a mother's way, 
 And notes each sign of sturdy play 
 And shakes her head and says to me: 
 "I wonder how this came to be?" 
 
 There's something in her patient eyes, 
 As in and out her needle flies, 
 Which seems to tell the joy she takes 
 In every little stitch she makes. 
 An hour of peace has settled down; 
 Hushed is the clamor of the town; 
 And even I am different then, 
 For I forsake the ways of men 
 And see about the garments there 
 Bright visions of a happy pair. 
 
 Buttons are closely linked to joy. 
 Each little girl and little boy 
 Who dares to climb the garden fence 
 Buys that delight at their expense; 
 
 [10]
 
 Buttons are childhood's tattle tales 
 Swifter than telegrams or mails 
 They fly to tell of moments glad 
 That little boys and girls have had; 
 And mother reads the stories there 
 From every vacant space and tear. 
 
 She sweetly smiles and says to me: 
 
 "How sturdy they have grown to be! 
 
 It keeps me busy to repair 
 
 The shirts and things they have to wear." 
 
 I chuckle as I watch her sew, 
 
 For joy has set the room aglow, 
 
 And in the picture I can see 
 
 The strength which means so much to me. 
 
 The scene is good to look upon 
 
 When mother's sewing buttons on.
 
 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 wuz fashioned plainly, 
 Loose o' joint an' blamed ungainly, 
 But I'd give a lot if I'd 
 Been prepared so 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 is much like old Abe Lincoln 
 Homely like a gargoyle graven, 
 An' looks worse when he's unshaven ; 
 But I'd take his ugly phiz 
 Jes' to have a heart like his. 
 
 I ain't oversentimental, 
 But old Blake is so blamed gentle 
 An' so thoughtful-like of others 
 He reminds us of our mothers. 
 Rough roads he is always smoothin', 
 An' his way is, oh, so soothin' 
 That he takes away the sting 
 When your heart is sorrowing. 
 
 [12]
 
 From a painting by M. L. BOWER
 
 THE HOMELY MAN (Concluded) 
 
 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 BETTER JOB 
 
 IF I were running a fa&ory 
 I'd stick up a sign for all to see, 
 I'd print it large and I'd nail it high 
 On every wall that the men walked by, 
 And I'd have it carry this sentence clear: 
 "The Better Job that you want is here!'* 
 
 It's the common trait of the human race 
 To pack up and roam from place to place; 
 Men have done it for ages and do it now, 
 Seeking to better themselves somehow; 
 They quit their posts and their tools they drop 
 For a better job in another shop. 
 
 It may be I'm wrong, but I hold to this 
 That somewhere something must be amiss 
 When a man worth while must move away 
 For the better job with the better pay; 
 And something is false in our own renown 
 When men can think of a better town. 
 
 So if I were running a factory 
 I'd stick up this sign for all to see, 
 Which never an eye in the place could miss : 
 "There isn't a better town than this; 
 
 * 
 
 You need not go wandering, far or near 
 The Better Job that you want is here!" 
 
 ['5]
 
 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. 
 Griefs 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. 
 
 [16]
 
 From a charcoal drawing ^yWT. BENDA
 
 THE CHIP 
 v ON YOUR SHOULDER 
 
 YOU'LL LEARN when you're older, that chip on your 
 shoulder 
 
 Which you dare other boys to upset 
 And stand up and fight for, and struggle and smite for, 
 
 Has caused you much pain and regret. 
 When Time, life's adviser, has made you much wiser, 
 
 You won't be so quick with the blow; 
 You won't be so willing to fight for a shilling, 
 
 And change a good friend to a foe. 
 
 You won't be a sticker for trifles, and bicker 
 
 And quarrel for nothing at all; 
 You'll grow to be kinder, more thoughtful, and blinder 
 
 To faults which are petty and small. 
 You won't take the trouble your two fists to double 
 
 When some one your pride may offend; 
 When with rage now you bristle you'll smile or you'll 
 whistle, 
 
 And keep the good will of a friend. 
 
 You'll learn when you're older, that chip on your 
 shoulder 
 
 Which proudly you battle to guard, 
 Has frequently shamed you and often defamed you, 
 
 And left you a record that's marred! 
 
 [18]
 
 When you've grown calm and steady, you won't be so 
 
 ready 
 
 To fight for a difference that's small 
 For you'll know, when you're older, that chip on your 
 
 shoulder 
 Is only a chip after all. 
 
 ['9]
 
 THE JOYS WE MISS 
 
 THERE never comes a lonely day but what 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 path- 
 way day by day, 
 
 How much of joy he brought to us, how much of care 
 he brushed away; 
 
 But now that we must treat! alone the thoroughfare of 
 life, we find 
 
 How many burdens we were spared by him who was 
 so brave and kind. 
 
 [20]
 
 From a painting ^M.L.BoWER
 
 THE JOYS WE MISS (Concluded) 
 
 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 what we wish 
 
 our friends were near; 
 For peace is born of simple things a kindly word, a 
 
 good-night kiss, 
 The prattle of a babe, and love these are the vanished 
 
 joys we miss. 
 
 [22]
 
 THE CALL 
 
 I MUST get out to the woods again, to the whispering 
 
 trees and the birds aswing, 
 Away from the haunts of pale-faced men, to the spaces 
 
 wide where strength is king; 
 I must get out where the skies are blue and the air is 
 
 clean and the rest is sweet, 
 Out where there's never a task to do or a goal to reach 
 
 or a foe to meet. 
 
 I must get out on the trails once more that wind through 
 shadowy haunts and cool, 
 
 Away from the presence of wall and door, and see my- 
 self in a crystal pool; 
 
 I must get out with the silent things, where neither 
 laughter nor hate is heard, 
 
 Where malice never the humblest stings and no one 
 is hurt by a spoken word. 
 
 Oh, I've heard the call of the tall white pine, and heard 
 
 the call of the running brook; 
 I'm tired of the tasks which each day are mine, I'm 
 
 weary of reading a printed book; 
 I want to get out of the din and strife, the clang and 
 
 clamor of turning wheel, 
 And walk for a day where life is life, and the joys are 
 
 true and the pictures real.
 
 THE COMMON TOUCH 
 
 I WOULD not be too wise so very wise 
 
 That I must sneer at simple songs and creeds, 
 
 And let the glare of wisdom blind my eyes 
 To humble people and their humble needs. 
 
 I would not care to climb so high that I 
 
 Could never hear the children at their play, 
 
 Could only see the people passing by, 
 
 Yet never hear the cheering words they say. 
 
 I would not know too much too much to smile, 
 At trivial errors of the heart and hand, 
 
 Nor be too proud to play the friend the while, 
 And cease to help and know and understand. 
 
 I would not care to sit upon a throne, 
 
 Or build my house upon a mountain-top, 
 
 Where I must dwell in glory all alone 
 
 And never friend come in or poor man stop. 
 
 God grant that I may live upon this earth 
 
 And face the tasks which every morning brings, 
 
 And never lose the glory and the worth 
 Of humble service and the simple things. 
 
 [24]
 
 From a painting by HARVEY EMRICH
 
 GOLF PRIDE 
 
 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 toil supremely in her favor, 
 
 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 are just as I had planned 'em, 
 
 The sort of shots which usually I play, 
 But when up to the cup I chance to land 'em, 
 
 I never claim I played 'em just that way. 
 
 [26]
 
 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.
 
 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 today 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, 
 
 [28]
 
 From a painting by FRANK X. LEYENDECKER
 
 LIVING (Concluded) 
 
 And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand dif- 
 ferent ways; 
 
 It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a 
 goal; 
 
 It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul! 
 
 [30]
 
 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.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below, 
 
 Form L9-50m-4,'61(B8994 B 4)444 
 
 LOS /
 
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 3513 Guest - 
 
 G93d Dozen new poems 
 
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