Home Again

I've been away for a month or more,

I've visited isles and ocean shore;

I've walked down blazing avenues,

With any diversion one could choose;

I've traveled ten thousand miles

On winding road or straightaway,

From the Golden Gate to the Capitol Dome --

Oh, it's nice to go on a vactaion,

but it's nicer to get back home!

My own back yard and the friendly fir

Look good to me -- and I'll tell you, sir,

Its shade is sweeter than far retreat

Of the scenic place where tourists meet

To write brave notes to Fred and Sue

To wish they were there -- instead of you,

In the torrid South or in frigid Nome --

Oh, it's nice to go on a vacation,

But it's nicer to get back home!

And the folks back here, they suit me swell,

They call my name and they wish me well.

And the things we have we love to share,

But it isn't the same at all out there,

where strangers meet at a small cafe,

To stare at each other, with nothing to say;

Where you long for a bath and a brush and a comb --

Oh, it's nice to go on a vacation,

But it's nicer to get back home!

Yes, I went to the zoo, and all of that;

But I'd rather sit home and pet the cat

Than to blister my feet in quest of thrill.

Ah, this is the life -- and I sit here still

to dream of my travel and contemplate

That the joys of the highway are second-rate,

For all roads lead back like they lead to Rome --

Oh, it's nice to go on a vacation,

But it's nicer to get back home!

(Copyright, 1940)

My Prayer

I cannot ask for bread, O Lord,

To meet my private hunger

When the fields of grain are trampled down

And black artillery's thunder

Is heaping devastation on

The stores of humble labor.

Whose plowshares tyrants beat into

Long bayonet or saber.

I cannot pray for self esteem

When every warring nation

Is tearing down the monuments

Inscribed to man's creation

To be the monarch of the earth;

But choosing now to burrow

For safety in his high estate,

Like rodents in a furrow.

I cannot pray for peace of mind

Nor warm and kindly shelter

When men like me can turn the world

Into a sickening welter

Of blood and tears and broken lives

And walls beyond redeeming;

Where bleak destruction in a day

Has killed a century's dreaming.

The only thing I ask, dear Lord,

Is for the grace of sharing

The heavy burdens of mankind

That other men are bearing

I pray, then, for the light to know,

When shrouds of hate are rent,

That while there's evil in the world

I, too, am recreant!

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Don't Say It!

You were injured, I know

By the words that he spoke.

How they stung like the lash of a whip,

When he made you a fool

And the butt of a joke

For the sake of his blundering quip!

So fashion your speech

With a vengeance to more than repay it.

Tip your poisonous words

With a hate that is meant

To destroy and to kill . . . But don't say it!

You are angered, I see,

To be misunderstood,

And thus taken to task by your friend.

For the thing you had done

That was meant for his good

In the distant and ultimate end.

So plan your rebuke

And devise your retort,

And let no kindly impulse delay it.

Aim the shaft of your hate

For a blow to the heart

Of that stupid ingrate. . . But don't say it!

It was painful, I'm sure,

When they told you at length

You had failed in the task they'd assigned;

For I knew you had lent

every ounce of the strength

You could muster in body and mind.

So make your resentment

A weapon of spleen --

Two can play at this game.  Well, then, play it

And frame you a line

That is cutting and mean,

That is vengeful and harsh . . . But don't say it!

You are crushed, I perceive,

By a hard, cruel fate --

When your struggle's been fine and heroic

And you've borne all your cares

With a hope that could wait,

With a heart of a saint and a stoic.

So rebel at the task

And compose some harrangue

Of contempt for you destiny.  Flay it

With a screed that reveals

All the bitterest pang

Of a frustrated soul . . . But don't say it!

(Copyright, 1940)

Tomorrow

Tomorrow I'll be calling on

That neighbor on our block;

To extend a world of welcome

And we'll have a little talk.

I will tell him we are happy

That he's living up our way.

Yes, I'll do it -- right tomorrow;

I'm too busy just today.

Tomorrow I'll go hiking with

That little kid of mine;

We will wander through the foothills

And we'll have a corking time.

I'll sit by a stream and listen

To the things he'll have to say.

Yes, by jove, we'll go tomorrow;

I'm too busy just today.

Tomorrow, sure, the wife and I --

We'll get into the car

And we'll take a little journey

Out to where the old folks are.

For we owe it to the old folks;

They are getting bent and gray.

So we'll do that -- right tomorrow;

I'm too busy just today.

Yes, the things we'll do tomorrow

Are too numerous, far, to name;

And they range from deeds of kindness

To the climbing up to fame.

But we'd better start to do them

And without too much delay --

For there's many a tomorrow

That has crumpled up today!

(Copyright, 1940)

The Summer Bride

Behold the charming summer bride

With bridesmaids trooping at her side.

She comes with mincing steps and slow

That mark the path fair women go.

Her dress of ivory mousseline

Reflects a soft and silken sheen;

The misty tulle that bands the hair

Comports with dainty mousquetaire.

Soft train of lace caught up with pearls

Drifts back in undulating furls;

The crowning touch, a blossomed spray,

Now sets her off in sweet array.

Who knows but in the after years

She'll seek them through a rift of tears;

Soft as the cooing of a dove --

Dear fragile memories of love,

When all the dreams of childhood, youth,

Will bring her back the hallowed truth

That life's bright freedom and romance

Are subject to the whims of chance.

Ah, beauty which she held sublime

Can wither at the touch of time;

Blue eyes can dim and lips can pale

And laughter that was high regale

Can be the gentle sigh of age

That drops a tear upon the page

Where rose of June was lightly pressed

That evening when his arm caressed

Her fondly to his manly side

And won the troth of blushing bride.

But one thing time will not erase

From any June bride's blushing face --

And that is love -- the love of two

Strong hearts that fought and weathered through

The sunshine and the storm of years

That mingled happiness and tears.

So put them by with gentle grace,

Those fragile things of tulle and lace;

And say a prayer to Him above

To sanctify and keep your love!

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)

Back Pay

Some fellows earn just what they get

And get just what they earn;

At extra tasks they fume and fret

And fret and fume and squirm.

And I know other chaps who go

Quite cheerfully beyond

The dead-line of the day, although

It isn't in the bond.

These are not niggared of their might

Nor chary of their strength;

They glimpse the better things in sight,

Dead sure they'll win at length.

Their days don't drag, nor duties pall;

They're reg'lar working hounds;

They whistle while they hit the ball

And knock it out of bounds.

They'll be rewarded one fine day

For all their keen devotion,

With dividends on all back pay --

They'll take it in promotion.

(Copyright, 1940)

Your World

If the world isn't right as you scan it,

It is quite your own fault, I would say;

For each one of us fashions his planet

In a private and personal way.

You can people your world with good friends, sir;

You can scatter glad smiles all around;

You can start endless ripples of laughter;

You can help make good will to abound;

You can banish the clouds gray and gloomy

That creep o'er the path of your day;

You can make your abode light and roomy,

Where to work is as joyous as play.

All the good things of life are not cornered,

And they won't be for many a moon:

There is plenty of wealth still ungarnered,

To be reaped to a rollicking tune.

This world's not a place you just fell in:

It is something you fashion and plan.

You can make it a place sweet to dwell in --

But the making is up to the man.

(Copyright, 1940)