The Home Builders
by
Edgar A. Guest
The world is filled with bustle and with selfishness and greed,
It is filled with restless people that are dreaming of a deed.
You can read it in their faces; they are dreaming of the day
when they'll come to fame and fortune and put all their cares away.
And I think as I behold them, though it's far indeed they roam,
They will never find contentment save they seek fir it from home.
I watch them as they hurry through the surging lines of men,
They are weary, sick, and footsore, but their goal seems far away,
And it's little they've accomplished at the ending of the day.
It is rest they're vainly seeking, love and laughter in the gloam,
But they'll never come to claim it, save they claim it hear at home.
For the peace that is the sweetest isn't born of minted gold,
And the joy that lasts the longest and still lingers when we're old
Is no dim and distant pleasure - it is not tomorrow's prize,
It is not the end of toiling, or the rainbow of our sighs.
It is every day within us - all the rest in hippodrome-
And the soul that is the gladdest is the soul that builds at home.
They are fools who build for glory! They are fools who pin their hopes
On the come and go of battles or some vessel's slender ropes.
They shall sicken and shall wither and shall never peace attain
Who believe that real contentment only men victorious gain.
For the only happy toilers under earth's majestic dome
Are the one who find their glories in the little spot called home.
Now I am off to build my home today. I think it is a worthwhile endeavor.
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