Poem: “The Finest Age” by Edgar A. Guest

A Heap o’ Livin’

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American Literature – American Poetry – Edgar A. Guest – Poems by Edgar A. Guest – A Heap o’ Livin’
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The Finest Age

  When he was only nine months old,
    And plump and round and pink of cheek,
  A joy to tickle and to hold,
    Before he’d even learned to speak,
  His gentle mother used to say:
    “It is too bad that he must grow.
  If I could only have my way
    His baby ways we’d always know.”

  And then the year was turned, and he
    Began to toddle round the floor
  And name the things that he could see
    And soil the dresses that he wore.
  Then many a night she whispered low:
    “Our baby now is such a joy
  I hate to think that he must grow
    To be a wild and heedless boy.”

  But on he went and sweeter grew,
    And then his mother, I recall,
  Wished she could keep him always two,
    For that’s the finest age of all.
  She thought the selfsame thing at three,
    And now that he is four, she sighs
  To think he cannot always be
    The youngster with the laughing eyes.

  Oh, little boy, my wish is not
    Always to keep you four years old.
  Each night I stand beside your cot
    And think of what the years may hold;
  And looking down on you I pray
    That when we’ve lost our baby small,
  The mother of our man will say
    “This is the finest age of all.”

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Success And Failure > > >

American Literature – American Poetry – Edgar A. Guest – Poems by Edgar A. Guest – A Heap o’ Livin’

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