A Heap O' Livin' by Edgar A. (Edgar Albert) Guest
page 47 of 175 (26%)
page 47 of 175 (26%)
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little prayers are said,
Duck beneath the patchwork covers when they tumble into bed. It's September, and a calmness and a sweetness seem to fall Over everything that's living, just as though it hears the call Of Old Winter, trudging slowly, with his pack of ice and snow, In the distance over yonder, and it somehow seems as though Every tiny little blossom wants to look its very best When the frost shall bite its petals and it droops away to rest. It's September! It's the fullness and the ripe- ness of the year; All the work of earth is finished, or the final tasks are near, But there is no doleful wailing; every living thing that grows, For the end that is approaching wears the finest garb it knows. And I pray that I may proudly hold my head up high and smile When I come to my September in the golden afterwhile. |
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