20 Douglas Malloch Poems

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Douglas Malloch was an American poet whose poems have encouraged millions around the world. One of his most encouraging poems, Be The Best of Whatever You Are is one that has inspired people of all ages.

He was born in Muskegon, Michigan on May 5, 1877, and died on July 2, 1938. But his words live on today and inspire and encourage many.

Douglas Malloch
Douglas Malloch



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Popular Douglas Malloch Short Poems:

  1. Sleep
    Poet: Douglas Malloch


    I slept last night as the wildwood's guest
    In the shade of an ancient tree,
    I sank to rest on the verdured crest
    Of a hill beside the sea;
    And the waves sang low to me:

    Sleep by the waters of the ocean old,
    Lulled by the song of the deep,
    For maids give smiles and men give gold
    But the good God gives you sleep.
    Yes, the good God gives you sleep.

    I slept last night in the woodland wild
    In the shade of an ancient yew;
    On the forest child the forest smiled
    With the love the infant knew;
    And it sang the long night through:

    Sleep 'neath the branches of the forest tree
    While the stars their watches keep ;
    The rover's home and the captive free
    When the good God gives them sleep,
    When the good God gives them sleep.

    Long is the way that my feet must tread.
    Weary and long the way.
    The way is red where the feet have bled
    That have walked in a bygone day;
    But I hear the woodland say:

    Sleep at the end of the tangled path.
    Where your soul no more shall weep;
    You sow but woe and you reap but wrath -
    But the good God gives you sleep.
    Yes, the good God gives you sleep.


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  3. Possession
    Poet: Douglas Malloch


    Here's some of us has this world's goods,
    An' some of us has none -
    But all of us has got the woods.
    An' all has got the sun.
    So, settin' here upon the stoop.
    This patch o' pine beside,
    I never care a single whoop -
    Fer I am satisfied.

    Now, take the pine on yonder hill:
    It don't belong to me;
    The boss he owns the timber - still,
    It's there fer me to see.
    An', 'twixt the ownin' of the same
    An' smellin' of its smell,
    I've got the best of that there game.
    An' so I'm feelin' well.

    The boss in town unrolls a map
    An' proudly says, "It's mine."
    But he don't drink no maple sap
    An' he don't smell no pine.
    The boss in town he figgers lands
    In quarter-sections red;
    Lord! I just set with folded hands
    An' breathe 'em in instead.

    The boss his forest wealth kin read
    In cent an' dollar sign;
    His name is written in the deed -
    But all his land is mine.
    There's some of us has this world's goods,
    An' some of us has none -
    But all of us has got the woods.
    An' all has got the sun!


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  5. Life
    Poet: Douglas Malloch


    Man, thrust upon the world, awakes from sleep.
    Knowing not whence he came nor how nor why.
    His earliest impulse is an infant cry.
    His final privilege is that to weep.

    A combatant although he sought no strife,
    A guest unwelcome come unwillingly,
    Given his vision that he may not see,
    He names this unnamed paradox his life.

    He learns to walk the forest and to love
    Its green and brown, its song and season's change,
    Yet will not taste a berry that is strange
    Or tread a pathway that he knows not of.

    Skeptic and doubter of the flow'r and tree,
    He questions this and that investigates -
    Yet drinks the beaker offered by the fates
    And leaves unsolved the greater mystery.


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  7. Settin' In The Sun
    Poet: Douglas Malloch


    I reckon the party who sets on a throne
    Has a perfectly miser'ble time;
    There always is someone a-pickin' a bone
    With a king or a monarch sublime.
    Some calculate maybe that bein' a king
    Is a job that is gen'ally fun -
    Well, well, it may be,
    But the best thing, to me,
    Is jest settin' right here in the sun.

    I reckon the party who sets in the chair.
    In the President's chair, an' all that,
    Must tote on his person consider'ble care
    An' a passel of woe in his hat.
    Some calculate maybe it's fun to be boss
    Or even for office to run -
    Well, that may be so.
    But the best thing I know
    Is jest settin' right here in the sun.

    I reckon the party who sets up on high
    He may wish for a moment that's calm.
    It's awful to set there an' find by-an'-by
    That you've done gone an' set on a bomb.
    I calculate, if they should blow up a king,
    In spite of the good he has done,
    Nary king he will be;
    But me, as for me,
    I'll be settin' right here in the sun.


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  9. Sunrise
    Poet: Douglas Malloch


    Some folks run to sunsets,
    Some folks run to noon.
    Some folks like the evenin' best,
    With its stars an' moon.
    Sunsets may be purty.
    Noontime fair to see,
    But the mornin' I like most -
    Sunrise time fer me!

    Some folks like at twilight
    Jest to set an' dream
    Of the day thet's dyin' there
    In the sunset gleam.
    What's the use of cryin'
    Fer the day's mistakes? -
    I'm jest lookin' fer the time
    When the sunrise breaks!

    An', if all the mornin's.
    All the days an' years.
    Bring me nothin' thet I ask,
    Bring me only tears -
    When this life is over.
    When my soul awakes,
    I'll be lookin' to the east
    Where the sunrise breaks!


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  11. To A Caged Bird
    Poet: Douglas Malloch


    Voice of the forest, tongue by which it speaks
    The throbbing gladness of its vernal time,
    No more, no more, your rising pinion seeks
    The heights sublime.

    Voice of the forest, once your gay wings beat
    Against the mountain diademed with stars;
    Now do men bid you sing a song as sweet
    To prison bars.

    Only a singer that they, passing, heard
    And then desired, like book and pipe and bowl -
    Knowing nor caring when they cage a bird
    They cage a soul.


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  13. The Imitators
    Poet: Douglas Malloch


    We build our fronded temples high,
    With arching roof and bended beam,
    We rear our artificial sky
    Where painted constellations gleam;
    We praise the marble majesty
    Our earthly artisans create —
    Yet walk abroad and do not see
    The heavens that we imitate.



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