I'LL never be rich.
I'm too fond of the joy
Of a certain small girl
And a certain small boy;
When I was but a little lad, not more than two or three,
I noticed in a general way my dad was proud of me.
He liked the little ways I had, the simple things I said;
Sometimes he gave me words of praise, sometimes he stroked my head;
And when I'd done a thing worth while, the thought that made me glad
Was always that I'd done my best, and that would please my dad.
When an old man gets to thinking of the years he's traveled through,
He hears again the laughter of the little ones he knew.
He isn't counting money, and he isn't planning schemes;
He's at home with friendly people in the shadow of his dreams.
OUR children are our monuments,
The little ones we leave behind,
If they are good and brave and kind,
And labor here with true intents,
Our lives and work perpetuate
Far more than marble tablets great.
FOR every man who works there are
A dozen who will let him;
They'll smiling bask within the shade
The while his duties fret him.
Pinker than the roses that enrich a summer's day,
Splashing in the bath tub or just kicking them in play,
Nothing in the skies above or earth below as sweet,
As fascinating to me as a baby's little feet.
'I'm never alone in the garden,' he said. 'I'm
never alone with the flowers.
It seems like I'm meeting the wonderful dead
out here with these blossoms of ours.
These are the memories of tomorrow,
Smile of friend we meet today,
Sympathy to soothe our sorrow,
Roses blooming by the way;
Said Dan McGann to a foreign man who worked at the selfsame bench,
'Let me tell you this,' and for emphasis he flourished a Stilson wrench;
'Don't talk to me of the bourjoissee, don't open your mouth to speak
Of your socialists or your anarchists, don't mention the bolsheveek,