Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
That "cannot be done," and you'll do it.

(Edgar Albert Guest (1881-1959), Anglo-American poet. It Couldn't Be Done (l. 23-24). . . Family Book of Best Loved Poems, The. David L. George, ed. (1952) Doubleday & Company.)

Somebody said that it couldn't be done,
But he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one
Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried.

(Edgar Albert Guest (1881-1959), Anglo-American poet. It Couldn't Be Done (l. 1-4). . . Family Book of Best Loved Poems, The. David L. George, ed. (1952) Doubleday & Company.)

It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything.

(Edgar Albert Guest (1881-1959), Anglo-American poet. Home (l. 7-8). . . Oxford Book of American Light Verse, The. William Harmon, ed. (1979) Oxford University Press.)

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home,
A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam
Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind,
An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind.

(Edgar Albert Guest (1881-1959), Anglo-American poet. Home (l. 1-4). . . Oxford Book of American Light Verse, The. William Harmon, ed. (1979) Oxford University Press.)

Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit an' sigh

(Edgar Albert Guest (1881-1959), Anglo-American poet. Home (l. 17). . . Oxford Book of American Light Verse, The. William Harmon, ed. (1979) Oxford University Press.)