When I was young I used to think

I should not taste of death;

And now I faint to reach the brink,

And grudge my every breath

That streameth to the utter air

Leaving me to my tears

And outlook bare, with eyes astare

Upon the creeping years.

[Pg 16]

[Pg 16]

 v 

v

That little old house that seems to stoop

Yellow under thatch,

Like a three-sided chicken-coop,

Where, if you watch,

You'll see the starlings go and come

All a spring morn—

Half of that is my old home

Where I was born.

 Prev. P 17/82 next