James Whitcomb Riley (7 October 1849 - 22 July 1916 / Greenfield, Indiana)
I want to sing something-- but this is all--
I try and I try, but the rhymes are dull
As though they were damp, and the echoes fall
Limp and unlovable.
Words will not say what I yearn to say--
They will not walk as I want them to,
But they stumble and fall in the path of the way
Of my telling my love for you.
Simply take what the scrawl is worth--
Knowing I love you as sun the sod
On the ripening side of the great round earth
That swings in the smile of God.
Comments about this poem (A Scrawl by James Whitcomb Riley )
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