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;