On Going Home for Christmas - by Edgar Guest

He little knew the sorrow that was in his vacant chair;
He never guessed they’d miss him, or he’d surely have been there;
He couldn’t see his mother or the lump that filled her throat,
Or the tears that started falling as she read his hasty note;
And he couldn’t see his father, sitting sorrowful and dumb,
Or he never would have written that he thought he couldn’t come.

He little knew the gladness that his presence would have made,
And the joy it would have given, or he never would have stayed.
He didn’t know how hungry had the little mother grown
Once again to see her baby and to claim him for her own.
He didn’t guess the meaning of his visit Christmas Day
Or he never would have written that he couldn’t get away.

He couldn’t see the fading of the cheeks that once were pink,
And the silver in the tresses; and he didn’t stop to think
How the years are passing swiftly, and next Christmas it might be
There would be no home to visit and no mother dear to see.
He didn’t think about it — I’ll not say he didn’t care.
He was heedless and forgetful or he’d surely have been there.
Are you going home for Christmas? Have you written you’ll be there?

Going home to kiss the mother and to show her that you care?
Going home to greet the father in a way to make him glad?
If you’re not I hope there’ll never come a time you’ll wish you had.
Just sit down and write a letter — it will make their heart strings hum
With a tune of perfect gladness — if you’ll tell them that you’ll come.

Tolerance

"Plea For Tolerance"

If we but knew what forces helped to mold
The lives of others from their earliest years—
Knew something of their background, joys and tears,
And whether or not their youth was dear and cold,
Or if some dark belief had taken hold
And kept them shackled, torn with doubts and fears
So long it crushed the force that preserves
And made their hearts grow prematurely old,—

Then we might judge with wiser, kindlier sight,
And learn to put aside our pride and scorn. . .
Perhaps no one can ever quite undo
His faults or wholly banish some past blight—
The tolerant mind is purified, reborn,
And lifted upward to a saner view.

Margaret E. Bruner.

Laughter

Your Laughter- Pablo Neruda

Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.