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    Edgar Albert Guest 2004 9

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    Muhammad Ata Ul Mustafa
    This poem summarizes a classic poem by Edgar Albert Guest called "The Little Orphan". The summary describes a poor orphan boy who is forced to play in the city streets due to his circumstances, surrounded by smoke, grime and dust. Though he dreams of playing in open fields and by streams like other children, he wakes each morning to find only rags on the floor. He tries to play make-believe games with alleyways and barrels, but finds it difficult due to the oppressive heat and dust in the air. The summary captures the essence of the poem in showing the difficult reality faced by this orphan boy in only 3 sentences.

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    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd

    Edgar Albert Guest 2004 9

    Uploaded by

    Muhammad Ata Ul Mustafa
    157 views10 pages
    This poem summarizes a classic poem by Edgar Albert Guest called "The Little Orphan". The summary describes a poor orphan boy who is forced to play in the city streets due to his circumstances, surrounded by smoke, grime and dust. Though he dreams of playing in open fields and by streams like other children, he wakes each morning to find only rags on the floor. He tries to play make-believe games with alleyways and barrels, but finds it difficult due to the oppressive heat and dust in the air. The summary captures the essence of the poem in showing the difficult reality faced by this orphan boy in only 3 sentences.

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    This poem summarizes a classic poem by Edgar Albert Guest called "The Little Orphan". The summary describes a poor orphan boy who is forced to play in the city streets due to his circumstances, surrounded by smoke, grime and dust. Though he dreams of playing in open fields and by streams like other children, he wakes each morning to find only rags on the floor. He tries to play make-believe games with alleyways and barrels, but finds it difficult due to the oppressive heat and dust in the air. The summary captures the essence of the poem in showing the difficult reality faced by this orphan boy in only 3 sentences.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as pdf or txt
    157 views10 pages

    Edgar Albert Guest 2004 9

    Uploaded by

    Muhammad Ata Ul Mustafa
    This poem summarizes a classic poem by Edgar Albert Guest called "The Little Orphan". The summary describes a poor orphan boy who is forced to play in the city streets due to his circumstances, surrounded by smoke, grime and dust. Though he dreams of playing in open fields and by streams like other children, he wakes each morning to find only rags on the floor. He tries to play make-believe games with alleyways and barrels, but finds it difficult due to the oppressive heat and dust in the air. The summary captures the essence of the poem in showing the difficult reality faced by this orphan boy in only 3 sentences.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as pdf or txt
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    Classic Poetry Series

    Edgar Albert Guest


    - poems -

    Publication Date:
    2004

    Publisher:

    PoemHunter.Com - The World's Poetry Archive

    A Toast to the Men


    Here's to the men! Since Adam's time
    They've always been the same;
    Whenever anything goes wrong,
    The woman is to blame.
    From early morn to late at night,
    The men fault-finders are;
    They blame us if they oversleep,
    Or if they miss a car.
    They blame us if, beneath the bed,
    Their collar buttons roll;
    They blame us if the fire is out
    Or if there is no coal.
    They blame us if they cut themselves
    While shaving, and they swear
    That we're to blame if they decide
    To go upon a tear.

    Here's to the men, the perfect men!


    Who never are at fault;
    They blame us if they chance to get
    The pepper for the salt.
    They blame us if their business fails,
    Or back a losing horse;
    And when it rains on holidays
    The fault is ours, of course.
    They blame us when they fall in love,
    And when they married get;
    Likewise they blame us when they're sick,
    And when they fall in debt.
    For everything that crisscross goes
    They say we are to blame;
    But, after all, here's to the men,
    We love them just the same!

    Edgar Albert Guest

    www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

    Father
    My father knows the proper way
    The nation should be run;
    He tells us children every day
    Just what should now be done.
    He knows the way to fix the trusts,
    He has a simple plan;
    But if the furnace needs repairs,
    We have to hire a man.
    My father, in a day or two
    Could land big thieves in jail;
    There's nothing that he cannot do,
    He knows no word like "fail."
    "Our confidence" he would restore,
    Of that there is no doubt;
    But if there is a chair to mend,
    We have to send it out.
    All public questions that arise,
    He settles on the spot;
    He waits not till the tumult dies,
    But grabs it while it's hot.
    In matters of finance he can
    Tell Congress what to do;
    But, O, he finds it hard to meet
    His bills as they fall due.

    It almost makes him sick to read


    The things law-makers say;
    Why, father's just the man they need,
    He never goes astray.
    All wars he'd very quickly end,
    As fast as I can write it;
    But when a neighbor starts a fuss,
    'Tis mother has to fight it.
    In conversation father can
    Do many wondrous things;
    He's built upon a wiser plan
    Than presidents or kings.
    He knows the ins and outs of each
    And every deep transaction;
    We look to him for theories,
    But look to ma for action.

    Edgar Albert Guest

    www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

    Hard Luck
    Ain't no use as I can see
    In sittin' underneath a tree
    An' growlin' that your luck is bad,
    An' that your life is extry sad;
    Your life ain't sadder than your neighbor's
    Nor any harder are your labors;
    It rains on him the same as you,
    An' he has work he hates to do;
    An' he gits tired an' he gits cross,
    An' he has trouble with the boss;
    You take his whole life, through an' through,
    Why, he's no better off than you.
    If whinin' brushed the clouds away
    I wouldn't have a word to say;
    If it made good friends out o' foes
    I'd whine a bit, too, I suppose;
    But when I look around an' see
    A lot o' men resemblin' me,
    An' see 'em sad, an' see 'em gay
    With work t' do most every day,
    Some full o' fun, some bent with care,
    Some havin' troubles hard to bear,
    I reckon, as I count my woes,
    They're 'bout what everybody knows.

    The day I find a man who'll say


    He's never known a rainy day,
    Who'll raise his right hand up an' swear
    In forty years he's had no care,
    Has never had a single blow,
    An' never known one touch o' woe,
    Has never seen a loved one die,
    Has never wept or heaved a sigh,
    Has never had a plan go wrong,
    But allas laughed his way along;
    Then I'll sit down an' start to whine
    That all the hard luck here is mine.

    Edgar Albert Guest

    www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

    On Quitting
    How much grit do you think you've got?
    Can you quit a thing that you like a lot?
    You may talk of pluck; it's an easy word,
    And where'er you go it is often heard;
    But can you tell to a jot or guess
    Just how much courage you now possess?
    You may stand to trouble and keep your grin,
    But have you tackled self-discipline?
    Have you ever issued commands to you
    To quit the things that you like to do,
    And then, when tempted and sorely swayed,
    Those rigid orders have you obeyed?
    Don't boast of your grit till you've tried it out,
    Nor prate to men of your courage stout,
    For it's easy enough to retain a grin
    In the face of a fight there's a chance to win,
    But the sort of grit that is good to own
    Is the stuff you need when you're all alone.
    How much grit do you think you've got?
    Can you turn from joys that you like a lot?
    Have you ever tested yourself to know
    How far with yourself your will can go?
    If you want to know if you have grit,
    Just pick out a joy that you like, and quit.

    It's bully sport and it's open fight;


    It will keep you busy both day and night;
    For the toughest kind of a game you'll find
    Is to make your body obey your mind.
    And you never will know what is meant by grit
    Unless there's something you've tried to quit.

    Edgar Albert Guest

    www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

    See it Through
    When you're up against a trouble,
    Meet it squarely, face to face;
    Lift your chin and set your shoulders,
    Plant your feet and take a brace.
    When it's vain to try to dodge it,
    Do the best that you can do;
    You may fail, but you may conquer,
    See it through!
    Black may be the clouds about you
    And your future may seem grim,
    But don't let your nerve desert you;
    Keep yourself in fighting trim.
    If the worst is bound to happen,
    Spite of all that you can do,
    Running from it will not save you,
    See it through!
    Even hope may seem but futile,
    When with troubles you're beset,
    But remember you are facing
    Just what other men have met.
    You may fail, but fall still fighting;
    Don't give up, whate'er you do;
    Eyes front, head high to the finish.
    See it through!

    Edgar Albert Guest

    www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

    Thanksgiving
    Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice,
    An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice;
    An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that they
    Are growin' more beautiful day after day;
    Chattin' an' braggin' a bit with the men,
    Buildin' the old family circle again;
    Livin' the wholesome an' old-fashioned cheer,
    Just for awhile at the end of the year.
    Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door
    And under the old roof we gather once more
    Just as we did when the youngsters were small;
    Mother's a little bit grayer, that's all.
    Father's a little bit older, but still
    Ready to romp an' to laugh with a will.
    Here we are back at the table again
    Tellin' our stories as women an' men.

    Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer;


    Oh, but we're grateful an' glad to be there.
    Home from the east land an' home from the west,
    Home with the folks that are dearest an' best.
    Out of the sham of the cities afar
    We've come for a time to be just what we are.
    Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank,
    Forgettin' position an' station an' rank.
    Give me the end of the year an' its fun
    When most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done;
    Bring all the wanderers home to the nest,
    Let me sit down with the ones I love best,
    Hear the old voices still ringin' with song,
    See the old faces unblemished by wrong,
    See the old table with all of its chairs
    An' I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers.

    Edgar Albert Guest

    www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

    The Bachelor's Soliloquy


    To wed, or not to wed; that is the question;
    Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
    The bills and house rent of a wedded fortune,
    Or to say "nit" when she proposes,
    And by declining cut her. To wed; to smoke
    No more; And have a wife at home to mend
    The holes in socks and shirts
    And underwear and so forth. 'Tis a consummation
    Devoutly to be wished. To wed for life;
    To wed; perchance to fight; ay, there's the rub;
    For in that married life what fights may come,
    When we have honeymooning ceased
    Must give us pause; there's the respect
    That makes the joy of single life.
    For who would bear her mother's scornful tongue,
    Canned goods for tea, the dying furnace fire;
    The pangs of sleepless nights when baby cries;
    The pain of barking shins upon a chair and
    Closing waists that button down the back,
    When he himself might all these troubles shirk
    With a bare refusal? Who would bundles bear,
    And grunt and sweat under a shopping load?
    Who would samples match; buy rats for hair,
    Cart cheese and crackers home to serve at night
    For lunch to feed your friends; play pedro
    After tea; sing rag time songs, amusing
    Friendly neighbors. Buy garden tools
    To lend unto the same. Stay home at nights
    In smoking coat and slippers and slink to bed
    At ten o'clock to save the light bills?
    Thus duty does make cowards of us all,
    And thus the native hue of matrimony
    Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of chores;
    And thus the gloss of marriage fades away,
    And loses its attraction.
    Edgar Albert Guest

    www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

    The Little Orphan


    The crowded street his playground is, a patch of blue his sky;
    A puddle in a vacant lot his sea where ships pass by:
    Poor little orphan boy of five, the city smoke and grime
    Taint every cooling breeze he gets throughout the summer time;
    And he is just as your boy is, a child who loves to play,
    Except that he is drawn and white and cannot get away.
    And he would like the open fields, for often in his dreams
    The angels kind bear him off to where are pleasant streams,
    Where he may sail a splendid boat, sometimes he flies a kite,
    Or romps beside a shepherd dog and shouts with all his might;
    But when the dawn of morning comes he wakes to find once more
    That what he thought were sun-kissed hills are rags upon the floor.
    Then through the hot and sultry day he plays at "make-pretend,"
    The alley is a sandy beach where all the rich folks send
    Their little boys and girls to play, a barrel is his boat,
    But, oh, the air is tifling and the dust fills up his throat;
    And though he tries so very hard to play, somehow it seems
    He never gets such wondrous joys as angels bring in dreams.

    Poor little orphan boy of five, except that he is pale,


    With sunken cheeks and hollow eyes and very wan and frail,
    Just like that little boy of yours, with same desire to play,
    Fond of the open fields and skies, he's built the self-same way;
    But kept by fate and circumstance away from shady streams,
    His only joy comes when he sleeps and angels bring him dreams.

    Edgar Albert Guest

    www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

    Yesterday
    I've trod the links with many a man,
    And played him club for club;
    'Tis scarce a year since I began
    And I am still a dub.
    But this I've noticed as we strayed
    Along the bunkered way,
    No one with me has ever played
    As he did yesterday.
    It makes no difference what the drive,
    Together as we walk,
    Till we up to the ball arrive,
    I get the same old talk:
    "To-day there's something wrong with me,
    Just what I cannot say.
    Would you believe I got a three
    For this hole--yesterday?"
    I see them top and slice a shot,
    And fail to follow through,
    And with their brassies plough the lot,
    The very way I do.
    To six and seven their figures run,
    And then they sadly say:
    "I neither dubbed nor foozled one
    When I played--yesterday!"

    I have no yesterdays to count,


    No good work to recall;
    Each morning sees hope proudly mount,
    Each evening sees it fall.
    And in the locker room at night,
    When men discuss their play,
    I hear them and I wish I might
    Have seen them--yesterday.
    Oh, dear old yesterday! What store
    Of joys for men you hold!
    I'm sure there is no day that's more
    Remembered or extolled.
    I'm off my task myself a bit,
    My mind has run astray;
    I think, perhaps, I should have writ
    These verses--yesterday.

    Edgar Albert Guest

    www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

    10

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