184
A PRESIDENT AT HOME.
And the child-like violets up the hill
Climb, faintly wayward, about him still;
And the bees blow by at the wind's wide will;
And the cruel river, that drowns men so,
Looks pretty enough in the shadows below.
Climb, faintly wayward, about him still;
And the bees blow by at the wind's wide will;
And the cruel river, that drowns men so,
Looks pretty enough in the shadows below.
Just one little fellow (named Robin) was there,
In a red Spring vest, and he let me pass
With that charming-careless, high-bred air
Which comes of serving the great. In the grass
He sat, half-singing, with nothing to do———
No, I did not see the President too:
His door was locked (what I say is true),
And he was asleep, and has been, it appears,
Like Rip Van Winkle, asleep for years!
In a red Spring vest, and he let me pass
With that charming-careless, high-bred air
Which comes of serving the great. In the grass
He sat, half-singing, with nothing to do———
No, I did not see the President too:
His door was locked (what I say is true),
And he was asleep, and has been, it appears,
Like Rip Van Winkle, asleep for years!
