Edgar A. Guest poems are ones that viewed life from a positive aspect. People can relate to his words as he was able to make day to day life experiences and express the challenges from an inspirational and positive perspective that people could relate to.
Edgar A. Guest was born in Birmingham, England on August 20, 1881. He relocated with his family when he was 10 years old to the United States. He died on August 5, 1959, in Detroit, Michigan.
He held many different jobs over his lifetime, working for the Detroit Free Press for the majority
of his career, but he also worked for NBC radio broadcasting "A Guest In Your Home". But what has made him famous is his ability to write poetry that has inspired millions of people.
His work has been published in many books, starting in 1909 in the book, Home Rhymes and up until 1949 in his book, Living The Years. His poems still live on today due to people being able to see themselves in his poems.
Below is a collection of his poems for you to enjoy and
share with others.
The pathway of the living is our ever-present care.
Let us do our best to smooth it and to make it bright and fair;
Let us travel it with kindness, let's be careful as we tread,
And give unto the living what we'd offer to the dead.
The pathway of the living we can beautify and grace;
We can line it deep with roses and make earth a happier place.
But we've done all mortals can do, when our prayers are softly said
For the souls of those that travel o'er the pathway of the dead.
The pathway of the living all our strength and courage needs,
There we ought to sprinkle favors, there we ought to sow our deeds, There our smiles should be the brightest, there our kindest words be said,
For the angels have the keeping of the pathway of the dead.
To live as gently as I can;
To be, no matter where, a man;
To take what comes of good or ill
And cling to faith and honor still;
To do my best, and let that stand
The record of my brain and hand;
And then, should failure come to me,
Still work and hope for victory.
To have no secret place wherein
I stoop unseen to shame or sin;
To be the same when I’m alone
As when my every deed is known;
To live undaunted, unafraid
Of any step that I have made;
To be without pretense or sham
Exactly what men think I am.
To leave some simple mark behind
To keep my having lived in mind;
If enmity to aught I show,
To be an honest, generous foe,
To play my little part, nor whine
That greater honors are not mine.
This, I believe, is all I need
For my philosophy and creed.
The patter of rain on the roof,
The glint of the sun on the rose;
Of life, these the warp and the woof,
The weaving that everyone knows.
Now grief with its consequent tear,
Now joy with its luminous smile;
The days are the threads of the year--
Is what I am weaving worth while?
What pattern have I on my loom?
Shall my bit of tapestry please?
Am I working with gray threads of gloom?
Is there faith in the figures I seize?
When my fingers are lifeless and cold,
And the threads I no longer can weave
Shall there be there for men to behold
One sign of the things I believe?
God sends me the gray days and rare,
The threads from his bountiful skein,
And many, as sunshine, are fair.
And some are as dark as the rain.
And I think as I toil to express
My life through the days slipping by,
Shall my tapestry prove a success?
What sort of a weaver am I?
Am I making the most of the red
And the bright strands of luminous gold?
Or blotting them out with the thread
By which all men's failure is told?
Am I picturing life as despair,
As a thing men shall shudder to see,
Or weaving a bit that is fair
That shall stand as the record of me?
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 whate'er you do!
The little house is not too small
To shelter friends who come to call.
Though low the roof and small its space
It holds the Lord's abounding grace,
And every simple room may be
Endowed with happy memory.
The little house, severly plain,
A wealth of beauty may contain.
Within it those who dwell may find
High faith which makes for peace of mind,
And that sweet understanding which
Can make the poorest cottage rich.
The little house can hold all things
From which the soul's contentment springs.
'Tis not too small for love to grow,
For all the joys that mortals know,
For mirth and song and that delight
Which make the humblest dwelling bright.
Show me the boy who never threw
A stone at someone's cat;
Or never hurled a snowball swift
At someone's high silk hat.
Who never ran away from school,
To seek the swimming hole;
Or slyly from a neighbor's yard
Green apples never stole.
Show me the boy who never broke
A pane of window glass;
Who never disobeyed the sign
That says: "Keep off the grass."
Who never did a thousand things,
That grieve us sore to tell;
And I'll show you a little boy
Who must be far from well.
Write it down that here I labored,
Here I sang and laughed and neighbored;
Here’s the sum of all my story,
Here’s my fortune and my glory;
These four walls and friendly door
Mark the goal I struggled for.
Never mind its present worth,
Here’s one hundred feet of earth
Where the passerby can see
Every dream which came to me.
Write it down: my life uncloses
Here among these budding roses;
In this patch of lawn I’ve tended,
Here is all I’ve counted splendid;
Here’s the goal that’s held me true
To the tasks I’ve had to do.
Here for all the world to scan
Is my secret thought and plan;
Through the long years gone before,
This is what I struggled for.
Write it down, when I have perished:
Here is everything I’ve cherished;
That these walls should glow with beauty
Spurred my lagging soul to duty;
That there should be gladness here
Kept my toiling year by year.
Here in phlox and marigold
Is my every purposed told;
Every thought and every act
Were to keep this home intact.
"A beautiful day," you say to me,
For the sun is high and the skies are blue;
The robin sings in the chestnut tree
A song to his mate on the chimney flue.
A beautiful day! What makes it so?
The gentle sun and the fleecy skies?
They are not all that are needed, no!
There is more than that where beauty lies.
"A beautiful day," you say to me;
Have you helped a friend who was falling down?
Have you jogged a baby upon your knee
And laughed him away to London town?
Have unkind words on your tongue been stilled?
Have you brushed another's tears away?
Have you left any promises unfufilled?
Have you helped to make it a beautiful day?
A beautiful day! for the sun is out,
A beautiful day we all declare;
But have we scattered our clouds of doubt
Or lightened another's load of care?
God has sent us these beautiful days,
The skies of blue and the kindly sun;
But as we travel along our ways.
What beautiful deed can we say we've done?
We hope you have been encouraged and inspired by the poems written by Edgar A. Guest. His wit and wisdom has inspired many over the years. Share these with others who need a positive thought added to their day.