So I warn you, future poet, jest let 'em bloom an' lilt
Together—don't divorce 'em. That's jest the way they're built.
In order to be perfect, the future poet should
Know every sound of nature, of river, lake an' wood,
Should know each whispered note and every answerin' call—
He should never set cock-pheasants to drummin' in the fall.
"Under the golden maples!" Not havin' voice to sing
They flap their love out on a log quite early in the spring;
For burnin' love will allus find expression in some way—
That's the style that they've adopted—don't change their natures, pray.