Songs, Merry and Sad by John Charles McNeill
page 11 of 71 (15%)
page 11 of 71 (15%)
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When dogwood blossoms mingle
With the maple's modest red, And sweet arbutus wakes at last From out her winter's bed, 'T would not seem strange at all to meet A dryad or a gnome, Or Pan or Psyche in the woods Away down home. Then come with me, thou weary heart! Forget thy brooding ills, Since God has come to walk among His valleys and his hills! The mart will never miss thee, Nor the scholar's dusty tome, And the Mother waits to bless thee, Away down home. For Jane's Birthday If fate had held a careless knife And clipped one line that drew, Of all the myriad lines of life, From Eden up to you; If, in the wars and wastes of time, |
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