Now I see the blustery snow
And it’s changed the scenes where I used to go,
It’s all over white
Though the stars are shining bright,
How sad be that place where little Mary lives.
At times I think and really sigh
To think of those roses that are sleeping nearby.
But they will return
To my heart that yearns,
And for that place and its beauty
Where little Mary lives.
A QUESTION
Why are great men’s lives
Thrown into the mist?
One’s who aim at the sky,
Are found at the bottom of the list.
MR. FINK
I met a man
The other day
On a Chicago train.
By the way
His face was strange
And very old,
And holds a sad story
Yet to be told.
He says, my boy,
We’ll have a drink.
I said, no I thank you,
Mr. Fink.
Then he gave a real deep sigh,
Like a child about to cry.
In a moment he raised and said,
Then he stroked his old bald head,
Patting me on my shoulder then.
He faded his wrinkles into a grin,
Now my lad, as I sit and think,
May you never be like
Mr. Fink.
My younger days had I refused,
Now I’d stand in different shoes;
I could throw this blanket off of me
And this deadly sorrow that you see
Then with a nod he solemnly winked,
Try and remember Mr. Fink.
With a trembling he then relates
Of his mighty love that’s turned to hate,
He called a name that was once his wife.
This was the pride that wrecked his life,
Saying once I was rich, but now I beg.
She’s the cause, a wretched old hag,
Then there was love with a broken link
Mournfully told by Mr. Fink.