Oft repeated,—never changing,—
“All-is-vanity-vanity-vanity.”
Where the farmer ploughs his furrow,
Sowing seed with hope of harvest,
In the orchard white with blossom,
In the early field of clover,
Comes the little brown-clad singer
Flitting in and out of bushes,
Hiding well behind the fences,
Piping forth his song of sadness,—