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 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. I wouldn't call it living to be always seeking gold, To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old. I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame, And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim. I wouldn'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 isn't gold or fame at all! It's 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.