Grandmother’s Poem

There used to be a sheet of paper taped to the kitchen wall, right next to the markings of how tall I was growing each month and year. On the paper was the round, smiling face of a girl with a large bow in her short, dark hair, drawn in black pen. And above her was a handwritten poem, the first poem I ever learned:

Work while you work,

Play while you play.

This is the way

To be happy and gay.

All that you do,

Do with your might.

Things done by half,

Are never done right.