Elder Paul H. Dunn, Part Seven: Walt Mason Gave a Beggar...

 For Part One, Part Two, Part Three, or Part Four, or even Part Five or Part Six, click on the appropriate link.

Elder Paul H. Dunn gave us so many references in his talk, "What is a Teacher?". Here's the final one, a poem this time:

 

 The Quote

I gave a beggar from my store of wealth

Some gold. He spent the shining ore,

And came again, and yet again,

Still cold and hungry, as before.

I gave a thought, and through that thought of mine

He found himself, the man, supreme, divine—

Fed, clothed, and crowned with blessings manifold

And now he begs no more

It certainly sounds like Walt Mason's poetry, the Homer of modern America. He wrote like my great-grandfather did, very practical and often lightly humorous poetry.

 But no matter where I looked - in his book Rippling Rhymes, or Horse Sense in Verses Tense, or Uncle Walt, I couldn't find them, but I kept finding other pieces I loved. The titles alone make me want to read these books.

But back to the poem.

When the man was given money or material goods, his needs were only met for a short time, because he was still the same man who was impoverished. His poverty came from the inside. 

Knowing that he didn't have enough money to help the man, he gave him a thought that helped to change him into a different man, inside, and the man changed his impoverished circumstances on his own.

That's the power that the gospel of Jesus Christ has for us. I've seen it happen in my life, and in the lives of many others. And I thank God for ideas that create newness of life within us.

It feels appropriate to end this blog with another one of Walt Mason's many poems - I'm truly enjoying his work myself. 

This one's called "Little Pilgrims":

 

We are weary little pilgrims, 

straying in a world of gloom; 

just behind us is the cradle, just before us is the tomb; 

there is nothing much to guide us, 

or the proper path to mark, 

as we toddle on our journey, 

little pilgrims in the dark. 

And we jostle, and we struggle, in our feeble, futile wrath, 

always striving, always reaching to push others from the path; 

and the wrangling and the jangling of our peevish voices rise, 

to the seraphim that watch us through the star-holes in the skies; 

and they say: "The foolish pilgrims! Watch them as they push and shove! 

They might have a pleasant ramble, if their hearts were full of love, 

if they'd help and cheer each other from the hour that they embark—

but they're only blind and erring little pilgrims in the dark!"