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Edgar Guest - The Home Builders
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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 for it at home.
I watch them as they hurry through the surging lines of men,
Spurred to speed by grim ambition, and I know they`re dreaming then.
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 here 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 to-morrow`s prize,
It is not the end of toiling, or the rainbow of our sighs.
It` is every day within us—all the rest is hippodrome—
And the soul that is the gladdest is the soul that builds a 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 ones who find their glories in the little spot called home.
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