Sunday, August 17, 2014

Maker Of Songs

He made the little songs that people love,
Heart-clutching little songs of homely things
That bring a tender laughter to the eyes,
A sadness, that is like the brush of wings:
He sang of quaint wee maids in pinafores,
Of red geraniums on a window sill
Of curtains edged in golden-ruffled scrim,
And lullabies, when tiny feet are still.
He sang of soft warm arms that hold one close,
And trim white cottages-with garden plots
Of mellow loam, and rows of jade-green peas;
Of woodsy byways. . . and forget-me-nots.
He never sang the busy world he knew
The restless turmoil of the mill, and mart
A world that had denied these humbler joys. . .
He sang the hunger that was in his heart!


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