I fear ’twill be thus to the end of the world,
Forever, all over this earth;
That Springtime will always its blossoms display
And youth have its song and its mirth.
I pass by a group of girls and boys
With whose chatter, I have weary grown,
Peering through spectacles, a cane in one hand,
My features as lifeless as stone.
GRANDPA’S TROUGH
In the hearth, a crackling log is burning
Grandpa seated warms his hands and soul.
Softly hums the wheel his son is turning,
Carving out the wood a sturdy bowl.
What a queer chant this old wheel is singing;
The grandson’s wondering eyes are wide awake;
“See the curly shavings dad is spinning,
Look at all the things that he can make!”
From the forest came the log you’re breaking,
“Whose will be the finished wood-trough dad?
“Tis for grandpa . . . his old hands are shaking,
He broke all the dishes that he had.”
“Teach me how to do this . . .” “Look here, laddie!
Why should your hands learn these things to do?”
“Some day when your hands will tremble, daddy,
I will make a wooden trough for you.”
In the hearth a crackling log is spouting.
A shamefaced son clasps grandpa’s trembling hands.
The shaping wheel is still, the boy is shouting
“Daddy, tell me why the wheel now stands?”
AN INNER LIFE
If you possess an inner-life
Guard carefully this treasure,
Or life will sear into your soul
Eternal grief’s full measure.
When you step out into the world
You are a stranger there,
The finer blossoms of your soul,
Yes, the soul itself grows bare.
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