
Edgar Albert Guest
Years of life
Place of Birth
Place of death
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Publication languages
About the poet
Edgar Albert Guest was a British-born American poet who became known as the People's Poet. His poems often had an inspirational and optimistic view of everyday life. Guest was born in Birmingham, England in 1881. In 1891, his family moved from England to Detroit, Michigan, where Guest lived until he died.
His first published poem first appeared in Detroit Free Pass, the biggest newspaper in Detroit in which he worked there as a copy boy and a reporter later, on 11 December 1898. In 1902 he became an American naturalized citizen. From his first published work in the Detroit Free Press until his death in 1959, Guest wrote approximately 11,000 poems. He was pretty popular in the US because of his light, optimistic style.
Edgar Albert Guest Nationality and his Early Life
In 1895, the year before Henry Ford took his first ride in a motor carriage, Eddie Guest signed on with the Free Press as a 13-year-old office boy. He stayed for 60 years.
In those six decades, Detroit underwent half a dozen identity changes, but Eddie Guest became a steadfast character on the changing scene.
Three years after he joined the Free Press, Guest became a cub reporter. He quickly worked his way through the labor beat -- a much less consequential beat than it is today -- the waterfront beat and the police beat, where he worked "the dog watch" -- 3 p.m. to 3 a.m.
By the end of that year -- the year he should have been completing high school -- Guest had a reputation as a scrappy reporter in a competitive town.
It did not occur to Guest to write in verse until late in 1898 when he was working as assistant exchange editor. It was his job to cull timeless items from the newspapers with which the Free Press exchanged papers for use as fillers. Many of the items were verses. Guest figured he might just as well write verse as clip it and submitted one of his own, a dialect verse, to Sunday editor Arthur Mosley. The Free Press was choosy about publishing the literary efforts of staff members and Guest, a 17-year-old dropout, might have been seen as something of an upstart. But Mosley decided to publish the verse, His verse ran on Dec. 11, 1898.
More contributions of verse and observations led to a weekly column, "Blue Monday Chat," and then a daily column, "Breakfast Table Chat."
Verse had always been part of Guest's writing, but he had more or less followed the workaday road of many newsmen for 10 years. In 1908, standing in the rain as the solitary mourner for one such journalist who had long since been forgotten and relegated to the newspaper's morgue, Guest resolved to escape that fate by becoming a specialist. From that day forward, nearly all of his writing was in meter and rhyme.
And readers loved it.
They asked where they could find collections of his folksy verses. Guest talked it over his younger brother Harry, a typesetter, and they bought a case of type. They were in the book publishing business.
After supper, Harry climbed the stairs to the attic to set Eddie's poetry. Harry could set as many as eight pages -- provided the verses didn't have too many "e's" in them -- before he had to print what he had and break up the forms for eight more pages. They printed 800 copies of a 136-page book, "Home Rhymes."
Two years later, in 1911 and still working in eight-page morsels, they printed "Just Glad Things," but upped the press order to 1,500 copies.
They escaped the limits of their type case with the third book, published in 1914, but Guest had some misgivings about the large press run -- 3,500 copies. It sold out in two Christmases.
More books followed, and before he was done Guest had filled more than 20. Sales ran into the millions and his most popular collection, "It Takes a Heap o' Livin'," sold more than a million copies by itself.
Guest's verses, originally clipped by exchange editors at other papers, went into syndication and he was carried by more than 300 newspapers. His popularity led to one of early radios longest-running radio shows, appearances on television, in Hollywood and in banquet halls and meeting rooms from coast to coast.
But Edgar A. Guest remained, at heart and in fact, a newspaper man. In 1939, he told "Editor & Publisher," "I've never been late with my copy and I've never missed an edition. And that's seven days a week." For more than 30 years, there was not a day that the Free Press went to press without Guest's verse on its pages. He worked for the Free Press for more than six decades. Thousands of Detroiters were born, grew up and had children of their own before a Free Press ever arrived at their homes without Guest's gentle human touch.
When Guest died in 1959, he was buried in Detroit's Woodlawn Cemetery.
Edgar Albert Guest Famous Poems
Guest was widely read throughout North America, and his sentimental, optimistic poems were in the same vein as the light verse of Nick Kenny, who wrote syndicated columns during the same decades. Guest's most famous poem is the oft-quoted Home.
'Erbert's H'Opinion, A Baby's Love, A Battle Prayer, A Bear Story, A Boost For Modern Methods are his poems. Please click heresee full poems.
Poems by Edgar Albert Guest
Not more than eight or nine,
One special treat to make me glad
Was set apart as 'mine.'
On baking days she granted me
The small boy's dearest wish...

And nobody writes them now;
Never at all comes in the scrawl
On the written pages which told us all
The news of town and the folks we knew,
And what they had done or were going to do...

An' we come to this conclusion,
That wherever they be, on land or sea,
They warm to a home allusion;
That under the skin an' under the hide
There's a spark that starts a-glowin...

This is my dream and my thought and my care for you:
Strong be the spirit which dwells in the breast of you,
Never may folly or shame get the best of you;
You shall be tempted in fancied security,
But make no choice that is stained with impurity...

Where a man gets bigger money and is working shorter hours;
If the Briton or the Frenchman had an easier life than mine.
I'd pack my goods this minute and I'd sail across the brine.
But I notice when an alien wants a land of hope and cheer
And a future for his children, he comes out and settles here...

'Just half a man,' he told the boss, 'right now you look upon.
An accident did this to me, 'twere better had I died,
It robbed me of efficiency, but left me with my pride.'
The boss said kindly unto him: 'This is a busy place,
It takes two arms and two good legs to hold our daily pace...

For time has come an' stained its walls an' called the young away;
An' all that's left for mother an' for me till life is through
Is to sit an' tell each other what the children used to do.
We couldn't keep 'em always an' we knew it from the start;
We knew when they were babies that some day we'd have to part...

The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold;
The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea,
And upon this very subject no two men of us agree.
But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along,
That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song...

An' I'm always glad I'm livin' when the cake is passin' by;
An' I guess at every meal-time I'm as happy as can be,
For I like whatever dishes Mother gets for Bud an' me;
But there's just one bit of eatin' which I hold supremely great,
An' that's good old bread and gravy when I've finished up my plate...

It's no use to stamp and shout,
Wildly kicking dust about—
Play the game!
And though his decision may
End your chances for the day...

I've heard the throat man whisper low 'Come on now let us spray';
I've sat in fancy offices and waited long my turn,
And paid for fifteen minutes what it took a week to earn;
But while these scientific men are kindly, one and all,
I miss the good old doctor that my mother used to call...

Can't buy clothes that seem to fit him;
An' his cheeks are rough like leather,
Made for standin' any weather.
Outwards he was fashioned plainly,
Loose o' joint an' blamed ungainly...

In places where we ought to be;
Somewhere today it's needing you
To stand for what you know is true.
And needing me somewhere today.
To keep the faith, let come what may...

and smokin' of our pipes, discussin' things
Like taxes, votes for wimmin,
an' the totterin' thrones of kings,
When he ups an' strokes his whiskers
with his hand an' says to me...

The rich and poor, the great and low:
The charms which kindness has to give,
The smiles which friendship may bestow,
The honor of a well-spent life,
The glory of a purpose true...

Through ages long the morning sun
Has risen over the early mist
The flags of men to look upon.
And some were red against the sky,
And some with colors true were gay...

Are woods an' fields an' runnin' brooks;
An' when the month o' May has done
Her paintin', an' the mornin' sun
Is lightin' just exactly right
Each gorgeous scene for mortal sight...

Kept what was his, and went my way,
Wronged him by silence-for in haste
I let a glad thought go to waste.
I had a word of cheer to speak,
To strengthen him when he grew weak...

He's sworn to love the Stars and Stripes an' die for it, says he.
An' he's done with dukes an' princes, an' he's done with kings an' queens,
An' he's pledged himself to freedom, for he knows what freedom means.
He's bought himself a bit of ground, an', Lord, he's proud an' glad!
For in the land he came from that is what he never had...

You've got in the shop,' said he,
'One with the tenderest sort o' line,
In type that her eyes can see.
One that she won't need her specs to read,
'I love you my darling,' is all I need...
