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l' feller, an' his gardens! It don't matter much ter him, If th' hoein's hard an' tedgious, An' th' crop he grows is slim; Fer he loves ter be a-workin', An' he loves ter see things start Outer nothin'.... There's a garden In th' rock-bed o' my heart That he's planted, just by singin' In his odd, ole-fashioned way-- 'Cause he's glad, MY LIL' FELLER, In th' mornin' o' th' day! TO AN OLD SCHOOLHOUSE Down by the end of the lane it stands, Where the sumac grows in a crimson thatch, Down where the sweet wild berry patch, Holds out a lure for eager hands. Down at the end of the lane, who knows The ghosts that sit at the well-scarred seats, When the moon is dark, and the gray sky meets With the dawn time light, and a chill wind blows? Ghosts--well not ghosts, perhaps, but dreams-- Rather like wistful shades, that stand Waiting a look or an outstretched hand, To call them back where the morning gleams-- Dreams of the hopes we had, that died, Dreams of the vivid youth we sold; Dreams of a pot of rainbow gold-- Gold that we sought for, eager-eyed! Dreams of the plans we made, that sleep With the lesson books on the dusty rack, Of the joyous years that will not come back-- That are drowned in the tears we have learned to weep. Ghosts did I call them! Sweet they are As a plant that grows in a desert place, Sweet as a dear remembered face-- Sweet as a pale, courageous star. Where the sumac grows in a flaming wall, It stands, at the end of a little lane, And there do the children come again, Answering, still, the bell's shrill call, Just as we came, with their songs unsung, And their hopes all new, and their dreams dew kissed, Brave as the sun in a land of mist-- JUST AS WE CAME WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG! THE OLD SAILOR I've crossed the bar at last, mates, My longest voyage is done; And I can sit here, peaceful, And watch th' setting sun A-smilin' kind of glad like Upon the waves so free. My longest voyage is done, mates, But oh, the heart of me, Is out where sea meets skyline! My longest voyage is done.... But--can I sit, in
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