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IS it strange that I sit down and ponder On the years Father Time cut away? Is it strange, as in all other children, In my mind is a vision of play? Is it strange, though my hair shows the silver, I think of the playground of yore? The rose, the true essence of fragrance-- May it bloom as it blossomed before. I see the cool spring in the meadow As it oozed from the earth to allay The thirst of the young husky laddies Who hustled in making the hay; With the scythe swung they into the clover, The raking did likewise by hand, The pitching was strenuous labor-- Yet all was a builder and grand. The schoolhouse I see as a picture, Where the bat and the ball took a part; While the lessons were somewhat obscure They filled a small niche near my heart; I remember the spelling-class line-up As we all toed a scratch in the floor, And each spelled the word of a good-time-- May it bloom as it blossomed before. The creek gurgled down near our doorway And formed little eddies below, On which with our planks for a boat-ride, Little sailors, we often would go. And we found on our chart, navigation, Cargoes great, of contentment in store, Return giving best satisfaction-- May it bloom as it blossomed before. I fondly recall the fair picture And wonder if others likewise Have placed on the scroll, recollection, The sweetness which gladdens their skies. If so I would go miles to meet them; I would gladly walk up to the door And proffer the card of acquaintance-- May it bloom as it blossomed before. At home are the tokens I treasure, More choice than the crown of a king; On the staff they are chimes to the music Which appeal to my heart as they ring, And I hope as an artist of genius, You will dwell on the picture once more; May it bud in your pathway of promise, And bloom as it blossomed before. |