The only thing that counts with me Is what I've spent my money for. Is there money enough in the world to-day To buy your boy? With him I lived the old days That seem so far away; The beautiful and bold days When he was here to play; The sunny and the gold days Of that remembered May. Poem myself by edgar guest rooms. Oh, there's no cafe that better serves my precious appetite Than the pantry in our kitchen when I get home late at night. I don't regret the money gone, If happiness it left behind. Old country sausage was its name; the kind, of course, you know, The little links that seemed to be almost as white as snow, But turned unto a ruddy brown, while sizzling in the pan; Oh, they were made both to appease and charm the inner man. I am eager once more to feel easy, I'm weary of thinking of dress; I'm heartily sick of stiff collars, And trousers the tailor must press.
I do not quarrel with the gas, Our modern range is fine, The ancient stove was doomed to pass From Time's grim firing line, Yet now and then there comes to me The thought of dinners good And pies and cake that used to be When mother cooked with wood. My boss gets all the profits fine That I believe are rightly mine. But I thought to myself as I put on my hat, Perhaps she is sorry we came. That day was finest, I believe; Though many grown-ups scoff, When mother said that we could leave Our shoes and stockings off. The world is filled with bustle and with selfishness and greed, It is filled with restless people that are dreaming of a deed. Edgar a guest poems. Who has more time than we to play? The bright spots in my life are when the servant quits the place, Although that grim disturbance brings a frown to Nellie's face; The week between the old girl's' reign and entry of the new Is one that's filled with happiness and comfort through and through. The Carver Museum and The Oaks, home of Booker T. Washington, comprise a National Historic District, on the Tuskegee University campus.
There is a calm upon her face That marks the change that's taken place; It seems as though her eyes now see The wonder things that are to be, An' that her gentle hands now own A gentleness before unknown. Songs of rejoicin', Of kisses and love, Of faith in the Father, Who sends from above The sunbeams to scatter The gloom and the fear; These songs worth the singin', The songs of good cheer. Dang, you hear those birds? When I am asking him for more He says: "Why there's a candy store! Now we spend more time together, and I know we're meaning more To each other on life's journey, than we ever meant before. The Stick-Together Families. What's one mouth more at any board Though costly be the fare? Nudity / Pornography. The day is gone When men blindly hurry on Serving only gods of gold; Now the spirit that was cold Warms again to courage fine. Home by edgar guest poem. How sweet she was, an' yet how much She sweetened by the magic touch That made her mother! She smiles to hear his gallant brag, Then drops a curtsey to the flag. And that banner we are proud of, with its red and blue and white, Is a lasting holy tribute to all mothers' love of right.
And though God has not sent one down To you, within this very town Somewhere a little baby lies That would bring gladness to your eyes. Oh, the dreary nights we've cried! I asked another how he viewed The occupation he pursued. And then it seems to me that she Can only see the faults in me. I would rather be the daddy Of a romping, roguish crew, Of a bright-eyed chubby laddie And a little girl or two, Than the monarch of a nation In his high and lofty seat Taking empty adoration From the subjects at his feet.
So she dressed me up in velvet, an' she tied the flowing bow, An' she straightened out my stockings, so that not a crease would show. Somebody said that it couldn't be done. 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 allus laughed his way along; Then I'll sit down an' start to whine That all the hard luck here is mine. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. 1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg-tm License. And with the mother dear I'd yearn To see the hollyhocks return. At "Fulton's Folly" I'd have sneered, as thousands did back then, And called the Clermont's architect the craziest of men. Among the living I can feel The sweet departed spirits steal, And whether it be weal or woe, I walk with those I used to know. I know that what I did was wrong; I should have sent you far away.
Each goes searching after pleasure in his own selected way, Each with strangers likes to wander, and with strangers likes to play. Wake up, greet the sun, and pray. Here we are back at the table again Tellin' our stories as women an men. There are ways to hold pain like night follows day. Show the flag and let it fly, Cheering every passer-by. I reckon the finest sight of all That a man can see in this world of ours Ain't the works of art on the gallery wall, Or the red an' white o' the fust spring flowers, Or a hoard o' gold from the yellow mines; But the' sight that'll make ye want t' yell Is t' catch a glimpse o' the fust pink signs In yer baby's cheek, that she's gittin' well. I do not do my best because It gets me favors or applause— I work for him, but I can see That actually I work for me. A feller doing anything whose hands were white an' clean. Would that I might fall in line As a little boy of nine, But with broomstick for a gun, And with paper hat that I Bravely wore back there for fun, Never more may I defy Foes that deep in ambush kneel— Now my warfare's grim and real. When sick at heart of all the strife And pettiness of daily life, He knew he'd need, from time to time, To cleanse himself of city grime, And he would want some place to be Where hate and greed he'd never see. Ye've watched fer that smile an' that bit o' bloom With a heavy heart fer weeks an' weeks; An' a castle o' joy becomes that room When ye glimpse th' pink 'in yer baby's cheeks. For only he knows perfect joy whose little bit of soil Is richer ground than what it was when he began to toil.
Yes, brag about those days of old, boast of them as you will, I sing the modern methods that have robbed them of their chill; I sing the cheery steam pipe and the upstairs snug and warm And a spine that's free from shivers as I robe my manly form. They'll weary of the money chase And want to find a resting place Where hum of wheel is never heard And no one speaks an angry word, And selfishness and greed and pride And petty motives don't abide. Oft I hear a call above me: "Goodness gracious, come to bed! " Like to start the day with laughter; when I've had a peaceful night, An' can greet the sun all smilin', that day's goin' to be all right. Red roses sweet, Blooming there at my feet, Just dripping with honey and perfume and cheer; What a weakling I'd be If I tried not to see The joy and the comfort you bring to us here. Oh, I wouldn't mind the tugging at my scalp lock, and I know That I'd gladly wear to please her that old flowing girlish bow; And I think I'd even try to don once more that velvet suit, And blush the same old blushes, as the women called me cute, Could the dear old mother only take me by the hand again, And be as proud of me right now as she was always then. God sends me the gray days and rare, The threads from his bountiful skein, And many, as sunshine, are fair. Gone is the hurry, The anguish and sting, The heartache and worry That business cares bring; Gone is the hustle, The clamor for gold, The rush and the bustle The day's affairs hold. But now he says he wants a gun, The kind that really shoots, And I'm confronted with a son Demanding rubber boots. The turkeys now are struttin' round the old farmhouse once more; They are done with all their nestin', and their hatchin' days are o'er; Now the farmer's cuttin' fodder for the silo towerin' high An' he's frettin' an' complainin' 'cause the corn's a bit too dry. If I can sneak from toil a week To chum with stream and tree, I'll fish away and smiling say That life's been good to me.