Let the Children Play..

I was reminded of this poem recently. I had our mini van packed and we were driving through a sprawling , metropolis of  million dollar mansions on our way to a swimming area on the edge of the city. from the back of the van someone asks "are these people rich?"

Hmmm" I reply , "it depends on  what you mean." My eyes take in the enormous, pristine, homes  and their  sprawling triple car garages. Manicured lawns and gardens leave no evidence of anyone actually living here.
 I know the answer. "rich "cannot be measured by material wealth. Sometimes it's just good to be reminded.

             My House... 
         

I like to see a lovely lawn
Bediamonded with the dew at dawn.
But mine is often trampled bare,
Because the youngsters gather there.

I like a spotless house and clean
Where many a touch of grace is seen,
But mine is often tossed about,
By youngsters racing in and out.

I like a quiet house at night
Where I may sit to read and write,
But my peace flies before the tones
Of three brass throated saxophones.

My books to tumult are resigned,
In vain my furniture is shined,
My lawn is bare,my flowers fall,
Youth rides triumphant over all.

I love the grass, I love the rose,
And every living thing that grows.
I love the books I ponder o'er,
But , oh I love the children more!

And so unto myself I say;
Be mine the house where youngsters play.
Oh, little girl,oh, healthy boy,
Be mine the house which you enjoy!

            Edgar A Guest.