When day is done and I’ve come once more
To my quiet street and the friendly door,
Where the Mother reigns and the children play
And the kettle sings in the old-time way,
I throw my coat on a near-by chair
And say farewell to my pack of care.

When day is done, all the hurt and strife
And the selfishness and the greed of life,
Are left behind in the busy town;
I’ve ceased to worry about renown
Or gold or fame, and I’m just a dad,
Content to be with his girl and lad.

Whatever the day has brought of care,
Here love and laughter are mine to share,
Here I can claim what the rich desire—­
Rest and peace by a ruddy fire,
The welcome words which the loved ones speak
And the soft caress of a baby’s cheek.

When day is done and I reach my gate,
I come to a realm where there is no hate,
For here, whatever my worth may be,
Are those who cling to their faith in me;
And with love on guard at my humble door,
I have all that the world has struggled for.

The Simple Things

I would not be too wise—­so very wise
  That I must sneer at simple songs and creeds,
And let the glare of wisdom blind my eyes
  To humble people and their humble needs.

I would not care to climb so high that I
  Could never hear the children at their play,
Could only see the people passing by,
  And never hear the cheering words they say.

I would not know too much—­too much to smile
  At trivial errors of the heart and hand,
Nor be too proud to play the friend the while,
  Nor cease to help and know and understand.

I would not care to sit upon a throne,
  Or build my house upon a mountain-top,
Where I must dwell in glory all alone
  And never friend come in or poor man stop.

God grant that I may live upon this earth
  And face the tasks which every morning brings
And never lose the glory and the worth
  Of humble service and the simple things.

Life Is What We Make It

Life is a jest;
  Take the delight of it. 
Laughter is best;
  Sing through the night of it. 
Swiftly the tear
  And the hurt and the ache of it
Find us down here;
  Life must be what we make of it.

Life is a song;
  Dance to the thrill of it. 
Grief’s hours are long,
  And cold is the chill of it. 
Joy is man’s need;
  Let us smile for the sake of it. 
This be our creed: 
  Life must be what we make of it.

Life is a soul;
  The virtue and vice of it,
Strife for a goal,
  And man’s strength is the price of it. 
Your life and mine,
  The bare bread and the cake of it
End in this line: 
  Life must be what we make of it.

What We Need