The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold; <br />The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold; <br />The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea, <br />And upon this vital subject no two of us agree. <br />But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along, <br />That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song. <br /> <br />I wouldn't call it living always to be seeking gold, <br />To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old. <br />I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame, <br />And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim. <br />I wouldn't for the splendor of the world set out to roam, <br />And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home. <br />Oh, the thing that I call living isn't gold or fame at all! <br /> <br />It's good-fellowship and sunshine, and it's roses by the wall; <br />It's evenings glad with music and a hearth fire that's ablaze, <br />And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways. <br />It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal; <br />It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/what-i-call-living/
