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wanted.—a theme.
I could write of the fields, mother, the dark and waving woods,
The bursting flowers, the clinging vines, the waterfalls and floods;
But then the world would say, mother, although 't were done up neat,
That I was in a beaten track, a-following that Street.
The bursting flowers, the clinging vines, the waterfalls and floods;
But then the world would say, mother, although 't were done up neat,
That I was in a beaten track, a-following that Street.
I might weave lays like rose-wreaths, mother, and fling them left and right;
All odorous with the breath of love, and glowing with its light;
But though 'twere all a sham, mother, wise ones their heads would shake,
And they 'd say I was in love, mother, which were a sad mistake.
All odorous with the breath of love, and glowing with its light;
But though 'twere all a sham, mother, wise ones their heads would shake,
And they 'd say I was in love, mother, which were a sad mistake.
I could write of the West, mother,—tell many a backwoods tale;
But "Mary Clavers" long ago chanced on that happy trail.
And "went it with a rush," mother, as all the world agree,
And made "a powerful sight" of fun, and left no laugh for me.
But "Mary Clavers" long ago chanced on that happy trail.
And "went it with a rush," mother, as all the world agree,
And made "a powerful sight" of fun, and left no laugh for me.
