There's a sight of this 'ere po'try stuff, each year, that goes to waste,
Jest a-waitin' fer a poet who has the time and taste
To tackle it just as it is, an' weave it into rhyme,
With warp and woof of hope and love, in life's swift loom of time.
An' mebbe the future poet, if he understands the thing,
Won't start the summer katydids to singin' in the spring,
Jest like the croakin' frog; but let the critter wait at most,
To announce to timid farmers that "it's jest six weeks till frost."
The katydid and goldenrod are partners in this way:
They sing and bloom where'er there's room, along life's sunny way;