Our Guest

My last post reminded me of a poem by Edgar A. Guest.  When I was in high school, I was given an old leather volume of his poems, and I memorized one for an English assignment.  Since that time, I've had a soft spot in my heart for his poetry; it is folksy and simple.  Many years ago when Dave and I were in an antique store in Pacific Grove, I found a volume of his collected verses published in 1934 and I bought it. Guest died in 1959 after writing more than 11,000 poems and having over 20 poetry volumes published.  An interesting aside, his niece, Judith Guest, wrote the best-selling novel, Ordinary People.  Edgar A. Guest was called "the poet of the people."

Anyway, as I originally was saying, my last post reminded me of Edgar A. Guest's poem, "Our House," so I thought I'd share it with you.

Our House

I like to see a lovely lawn

Bediamoned with dew at dawn,

But mine is often trampled bare,

Because the youngsters gather there.

I like a spotless house and clean

Where many a touch of grace is seen,

but mine is often tossed about

By youngsters racing in and out.

I like a quiet house at night

Where I may sit to read and write,

But my peace flies before the tones

Of three brass throated saxophones.

My books to tumult are resigned,

In vain my furniture is shined.

My lawn is bare, my flowers fall,

Youth rides triumphant over all.

I love the grass, I love the rose,

And every living thing that grows.

I love the books I ponder o'er,

But oh, I love the children more!

And so unto myself I say:

Be mine the house where youngsters play.

Oh, little girl, oh, healthy boy,

Be mine the house which you enjoy!