Part 7 (2/2)

If the dear ones who gather about him And know what he's striving to do Have never a reason to doubt him, Is he less successful than you?

You think that the failures are many, You judge by men's profits in gold; You judge by the rule of the penny-- In this true success isn't told.

This falsely man's story is telling, For wealth often brings on distress, But wherever love brightens a dwelling, There lives; rich or poor, a success.

The Sorry Hostess

She said she was sorry the weather was bad The night that she asked us to dine; And she really appeared inexpressibly sad Because she had hoped 'twould be fine.

She was sorry to hear that my wife had a cold, And she almost shed tears over that, And how sorry she was, she most feelingly told, That the steam wasn't on in the flat.

She was sorry she hadn't asked others to come, She might just as well have had eight; She said she was downcast and terribly glum Because her dear husband was late.

She apologized then for the home she was in, For the state of the rugs and the chairs, For the children who made such a horrible din, And then for the squeak in the stairs.

When the dinner began she apologized twice For the olives, because they were small; She was certain the celery, too, wasn't nice, And the soup didn't suit her at all.

She was sorry she couldn't get whitefish instead Of the trout that the fishmonger sent, But she hoped that we'd manage somehow to be fed, Though her dinner was not what she meant.

She spoke her regrets for the salad, and then Explained she was really much hurt, And begged both our pardons again and again For serving a skimpy dessert.

She was sorry for this and sorry for that, Though there really was nothing to blame.

But I thought to myself as I put on my hat, Perhaps she is sorry we came.

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 bra.s.sies 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.

The Beauty Places

Here she walked and romped about, And here beneath this apple tree Where all the gra.s.s is trampled out The swing she loved so used to be.

This path is but a path to you, Because my child you never knew.

'Twas here she used to stoop to smell The first bright daffodil of spring; 'Twas here she often tripped and fell And here she heard the robins sing.

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