Then she called in a neighbor, and opened the door,
And showed her the clothes Nicodemus “had wore;
And his poor old socks she broidered in brown;”
Such a good man was he—they weeping sat down.
When he was alive, I had so much to do,
The days were so short I never got through;
And when I get lonely, perhaps I have missed
To put on a button or a patch I have kissed.
Playtime.
Old age is the time to watch and pray,
And to prepare for the coming day.
Your workday is over—rest and be glad,
This is your playtime—do not be sad.
Your hair is turned from brown to gray,
And the little ringlets softly play.
And hold a wee dear one close to your heart,
Singing a lullaby—this is your part.
And see the blue smoke curl over your head
From your golden meerschaum; gladness doth shed.
And the song of the birds, again spring is here,
Bringing to all the time we hold dear.
And old recollections your memory doth fill,
Of youth, full of fire—you remember still.