Once upon a time I was a young long-haired English Major and I cared about ee cummings and TS Elliott and John Donne and disdained the lowly sentimentalist stuff of Edgar Guest. He was mentioned among my professors and peers only in the context of a perfect example of lame, sentimentalist doggerel. But I believe that in aging we become more attracted to the warmth of the low-burning bed of autumn embers than the excitement of the summer bonfire, an analogy that Mr Guest might have found enticing.
Anyhow, I have enjoyed reading the pieces by him in this thread, and regret somewhat my youthful callousness.