CONTENTMENT by Eugene Field

Happy the man that, when his day is done, Lies down to sleep with nothing of regret-- The battle he has fought may not be won-- The fame he sought be just as fleeting yet; Folding at last his hands upon his breast, Happy is he, if hoary and forespent, He sinks into the last, eternal rest, Breathing these only works: "I am content." But happier he, that, while his blood is warm, See hopes and friendships dead about him lie-- Bares his brave breast to envy's bitter storm, Nor shuns the poison barbs of calumny; And 'mid it all, stands sturdy and elate, Girt only in the armor God hath meant For him who 'neath the buffetings of fate Can say to God and man: "I am content." "GUESS" There is a certain Yankee phrase I always have revered, Yet, somehow, in these modern days, It's almost disappeared; It was the usage years ago, But nowadays it's got To be regarded coarse and low To answer: "I guess not!" The height of fashion called the pink Affects a British craze-- Prefers "I fancy" or "I think" To that time-honored phrase; But here's a Yankee, if you please, That brands the fashion rot, And to all heresies like these He answers, "I--guess not!"-- When Chaucer, Wycliff, and the rest Express their meaning thus, I guess, if not the very best, It's good enough for us! Why! shall the idioms of our speech Be banished and forgot For this vain trash which moderns teach? Well, no, sir; I guess not! There's meaning in that homely phrase No other words express-- No substitute therefor conveys Such unobtrusive stress. True Anglo-Saxon speech, it goes Directly to the spot, And he who hears it always knows The worth of "I--guess--not!"