I know that what I did was wrong; I should have sent you far away. You tempted me, and I'm not strong; I tried but couldn't answer nay. I should have packed you off to bed; Instead I let you stay awhile, And mother scolded when I said That you had bribed me with your smile. And yesterday I gave to you Another piece of chocolate cake, Some red-ripe watermelon, too, And that gave you the stomach ache. And that was after I'd been told You'd had enough, you saucy miss; You tempted me, you five-year-old, And bribed me with a hug and kiss. And mother said I mustn't get You roller skates, yet here they are; I haven't dared to tell her yet; Some time, she says, I'll go too far. I gave my word I wouldn't buy These things, for accidents she fears; Now I must tell, when questioned why, Just how you bribed me with your tears. I've tried so hard to do the right, Yet I have broken every vow. I let you do, most every night, The things your mother won't allow. I know that I am doing wrong, Yet all my sense of honor flies, The moment that you come along And bribe me with those wondrous eyes. The Home Builders The world is filled with bustle and with selfishness and greed, It is filled with restless people that are dreaming of a deed. You can read it in their faces; they are dreaming of the day When they'll come to fame and fortune and put all their cares away. And I think as I behold them, though it's far indeed they roam, They will never find contentment save they seek for it at home. I watch them as they hurry through the surging lines of men, Spurred to speed by grim ambition, and I know they're dreaming then. They are weary, sick and footsore, but their goal seems far away, And it's little they've accomplished at the ending of the day. It is rest they're vainly seeking, love and laughter in the gloam, But they'll never come to claim it, save they claim it here at home. For the peace that is the sweetest isn't born of minted gold, And the joy that lasts the longest and still lingers when we're old Is no dim and distant pleasure--it is not to-morrow's prize, It is not the end of toiling, or the rainbow of our sighs. It' is every day within us--all the rest is hippodrome-- And the soul that is the gladdest is the soul that builds a home.