Page:The Soul of a Century.djvu/42

  I fear ’twill be thus to the end of the world, Forever, all over this earth; That Springtime will always its blossoms display And youth have its song and its mirth.

I pass by a group of girls and boys With whose chatter, I have weary grown, Peering through spectacles, a cane in one hand, My features as lifeless as stone.

In the hearth, a crackling log is burning Grandpa seated warms his hands and soul. Softly hums the wheel his son is turning, Carving out the wood a sturdy bowl.

What a queer chant this old wheel is singing; The grandson’s wondering eyes are wide awake; “See the curly shavings dad is spinning, Look at all the things that he can make!” From the forest came the log you’re breaking, “Whose will be the finished wood-trough dad? “Tis for grandpa his old hands are shaking, He broke all the dishes that he had.”

“Teach me how to do this ” “Look here, laddie! Why should your hands learn these things to do?” “Some day when your hands will tremble, daddy, I will make a wooden trough for you.”

In the hearth a crackling log is spouting. A shamefaced son clasps grandpa’s trembling hands. The shaping wheel is still, the boy is shouting “Daddy, tell me why the wheel now stands?”

If you possess an inner-life Guard carefully this treasure, Or life will sear into your soul Eternal grief’s full measure.

When you step out into the world You are a stranger there, The finer blossoms of your soul, Yes, the soul itself grows bare.