THE BOYS
Where are they?—the friends of my childhood enchanted—
The clear, laughing eyes looking back in my own,
And the warm, chubby fingers my palms have so wanted,
As when we raced over
Pink pastures of clover,
And mocked the quail's whir and the bumblebee's drone?
Have the breezes of time blown their blossomy faces
Forever adrift down the years that are flown?
Am I never to see them romp back to their places,
Where over the meadow,
In sunshine and shadow,
The meadow-larks trill, and the bumblebees drone?
Where are they? Ah! dim in the dust lies the clover;
The whippoorwill's call has a sorrowful tone,
And the dove's—I have wept at it over and over;—
I want the glad luster
Of youth, and the cluster
Of faces asleep where the bumblebees drone!
IT'S GOT TO BE
"When it's
got
to be,"—like! always say,
As I notice the years whiz past,
And know each day is a yesterday,
When we size it up, at last,—
Same as I said when my
boyhood
went
And I knowed we had to quit,—
"It's
got
to be, and it's
goin'
to be!"—
So I said "Good-by" to it.
It's
got
to be, and it's
goin'
to be!
So at least I always try
To kind o' say in a hearty way,—
"Well, it's got to be. Good-by!"
The time jes melts like a late, last snow,—
When it's got to be, it melts!
But I aim to keep a cheerful mind,
Ef I can't keep nothin' else!
I knowed, when I come to twenty-one,
That I'd soon be twenty-two,—
So I waved one hand at the soft young man,
And I said, "Good-by to you!"
It's
got
to be, and it's
goin'
to be!
So at least I always try
To kind o' say, in a cheerful way,—
"Well, it's got to be.—Good-by!"
They kep' a-goin', the years and years,
Yet still I smiled and smiled,—
For I'd said "Good-by" to my single life,
And I now had a wife and child:
Mother and son and the father—one,—
Till, last, on her bed of pain,
She jes' smiled up, like she always done,—
And I said "Good-by" again.
It's
got
to be, and it's
goin'
to be!
So at least I always try
To kind o' say, in a humble way,—
"Well, it's got to be. Good-by!"
And then my boy—as he growed to be
Almost a man in size,—
Was more than a pride and joy to me,
With his mother's smilin' eyes.—
He gimme the slip, when the War broke out,
And followed me. And I
Never knowed till the first right's end ...
I found him, and then, ... "Good-by."
It's
got
to be, and it's
goin'
to be!
So at least I always try
To kind o' say, in a patient way,
"Well, it's got to be. Good-by!"
I have said, "Good-by!—Good-by!—Good-by!"
With my very best good will,
All through life from the first,—and I
Am a cheerful old man still:
But it's
got
to end, and it's
goin'
to end!
And this is the thing I'll do,—
With my last breath I will laugh, O Death,
And say "Good-by" to you!...
It's
got
to be! And again I say,—
When his old scythe circles high,
I'll laugh—of course, in the kindest way,—
As I say "Good-by!—Good-by!"
