While the laughin’-sad song of the stream seemed to be
Like a lullaby angels was wastin’ on me—
Tel, swimmin’ the air, like the gossamer’s thread,
’Twixt the blue underneath and the blue overhead,
My thoughts went astray in that so-to-speak realm
Wher’ Sleep bared her breast as a piller fer them.
In the Muskingum Valley, though far, far away,
I know that the winter is bleak there to-day—
No bloom ner perfume on the brambles er trees—
Wher’ the buds ust to bloom, now the icicles freeze.—