What I Call Living

The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold;

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 vital subject no two 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.

I would n't call it living always to be seeking gold,

To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old.

I would n't call it living to spend all my strength for fame,

And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim.

I would n't for the splendor of the world set out to roam,

And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home.

Oh, the thing that I call living is n't gold or fame at all!

It's good-fellowship and sunshine, and it's roses by the wall;

It's evenings glad with music and a hearth fire that's ablaze,

And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways.

It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal;

It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul.