Page:The town down the river; a book of poems.djvu/135

 'Tis Oliver who tills alone Two gardens that are now his own; 'Tis Oliver who sows and reaps And listens, while the other sleeps, For songs undreamed of and unknown.

'Tis he, the gentle anchorite, Who listens for them day and night; But most he hears them in the dawn, When from his trees across the lawn Birds ring the chorus of the light.

He cannot sing without the voice, But he may worship and rejoice For patience in him to remain, The chosen heir of age and pain, Instead of Oakes—who had no choice.