Edgar A. Guest Quotes

Somebodys said that it couldn't be done But he with a chuckle replied That "maybe it couldn't " but he would be one Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried. So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin On his face. If he worried he hid it. He started to sing as he tackled the thing That couldn't be done and he did it.
Edgar A. Guest
He started to sing as he tackled the thing That couldn't be done and he did it.
Edgar A. Guest
At ChristmasA man is at his finest towards the finish of the year;He is almost what he should be when the Christmas season's here;Then he's thinking more of others than he's thought the months before,And the laughter of his children is a joy worth toiling for.He is less a selfish creature than at any other time;When the Christmas spirit rules him he comes close to the sublime.
Edgar A. Guest
Somebody said it couldn't be done.But he with a chuckle replied,That maybe it couldn't, but he would be oneWho wouldn't say so 'till he'd tried.So he buckled right in with a trace of a grinOn his face. If he worried, he hid it.He started to sing as he tackled the thingThat couldn't be done. And he did.Somebody scoffed, "Oh, you'll never do thatAt least no one ever has done it."But he took off his coat, and he took off his hat,And the first thing we know, he'd begun it.With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,Without any doubting or "quit-it".He started to sing as he tackled the thingThat couldn't done. And he did it.There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done.There are thousands to prophesy failure.There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,The dangers that wait to assail youBut just buckle in, with a bit of a grin;Just take off your coat and go to it.Just start in to sing as yout tackle the thingThat cannot be done--and you'll do it!
Edgar A. Guest
The little house is not too smallTo shelter friends who come to call.Though low the roof and small its spaceIt holds the Lord's abounding grace,And every simple room may beEndowed with happy memory.The little house, severly plain,A wealth of beauty may contain.Within it those who dwell may findHigh faith which makes for peace of mind,And that sweet understanding whichCan make the poorest cottage rich.The little house can hold all thingsFrom 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 delightWhich make the humblest dwelling bright.
Edgar A. Guest
It matters not what goal you seek Its secret here reposesYou've got to dig from week to week To get Results or Roses.
Edgar A. Guest
A little bit of hatred can spoil a score of yearsAnd blur the eyes that ought to smile with many needless tears.A little bit of thoughtlessness and anger for a dayCan rob a home of all its joy and drive delight away..A little bit of shouting in a sharp and vicious toneCan leave a sting that will be felt when many years have flown.And just one hasty moment of ill temper can offendAnd leave an inner injury the years may never mend.It takes no mental fiber to say harsh and bitter things;It doesn't call for courage to employ a lash that stings.And cruel words and bitter any fool can think to say,But the hurt they leave behind them takes years to wipe away.Just a little bit of hatred robs a home of all delight,And leaves a winding trail of wrong that time may never right.For only those are happy and keep their peace of mind,Who guard themselves from hatred and words that are unkind!
Edgar A. Guest
The Gentle GardenerI'd like to leave but daffodils to mark my little way,To leave but tulips red and white behind me as I stray;I'd like to pass away from earth and feel I'd left behindBut roses and forget-me-nots for all who come to find.I'd like to sow the barren spots with all the flowers of earth,To leave a path where those who come should find but gentle mirth;And when at last I'm called upon to join the heavenly throngI'd like to feel along my way I'd left no sign of wrong.And yet the cares are many and the hours of toil are few;There is not time enough on earth for all I'd like to do;But, having lived and having toiled, I'd like the world to findSome little touch of beauty that my soul had left behind.
Edgar A. Guest
This I would like to be- braver and bolder, Just a bit wiser because I am older, Just a bit kinder to those I may meet, Just a bit manlier taking defeat; This for the New Year my wish and my plea- Lord, make a regular man out of me. This I would like to be- just a bit finer, More of a smiler and less of a whiner, Just a bit quicker to stretch out my hand Helping another who's struggling to stand, This is my prayer for the New Year to be, Lord, make a regular man out of me. This I would like to be- just a bit fairer, Just a bit better, and just a bit squarer, Not quite so ready to censure and blame, Quicker to help every man in the game, Not quite so eager men's failings to see, Lord, make a regular man out of me. This I would like to be- just a bit truer, Less of the wisher and more of the doer, Broader and bigger, more willing to give, Living and helping my neighbor to live! This for the New Year my prayer and my plea- Lord, make a regular man out of me.
Edgar A. Guest
A Book “Now” - said a good book unto me -“Open my pages and you shall seeJewels of wisdom and treasures fine,Gold and silver in every line,And you may claim them if you but willOpen my pages and take your fill.“Open my pages and run them o’er,Take what you choose of my golden store.Be you greedy, I shall not care -All that you seize I shall gladly spare;There is never a lock on my treasure doors,Come - here are my jewels, make them yours!“I am just a book on your mantel shelf,But I can be part of your living self;If only you’ll travel my pages through,Then I will travel the world with you.As two wines blended make better wine,Blend your mind with these truths of mine.“I’ll make you fitter to talk with men,I’ll touch with silver the lines you pen,I’ll lead you nearer the truth you seek,I’ll strengthen you when your faith grows weak -This place on your shelf is a prison cell,Let me come into your mind to dwell!
Edgar A. Guest
I have to live with myself and so, I want to be fit for myself to know.
Edgar A. Guest
He was just a small church parson when thetwar broke out, and heLooked and dressed and acted like all parsonstthat we see.He wore the cleric's broadcloth and he hookedthis vest behind.But he had a man's religion and he had a stongtman's mind.And he heard the call to duty, and he quit histchurch and went.And he bravely tramped right with 'em every-twhere the boys were sent.He put aside his broadcloth and he put thetkhaki on;Said he'd come to be a soldier and was goingtto live like one.Then he'd refereed the prize fights that the boystpulled off at night,And if no one else was handy he'd put on thetgloves and fight.He wasn't there a fortnight ere he saw the sol-tdiers' needs,And he said: "I'm done with preaching; thistis now the time for deeds."He learned the sound of shrapnel, he could telltthe size of shellFrom the shriek it make above him, and he knewtjust where it fell.In the front line trench he laboured, and he knewtthe feel of mud,And he didn't run from danger and he wasn'ttscared of blood.He wrote letters for the wounded, and he cheeredtthem with his jokes,And he never made a visit without passing round the smokes.Then one day a bullet got him, as he knelt be-tside a ladWho was "going west" right speedy, and theytboth seemed mighty glad,'Cause he held the boy's hand tighter, and he tsmiled and whispered low,"Now you needn't fear the journey; over theretwith you I'll go."And they both passed out together, arm in armtI think they went.He had kept his vow to follow everywhere thetboys were sent.
Edgar A. Guest