The poetical works of Edwin Oscar Gale . their figures so blurred We put on our hat. Without saying a word We rush from our office, out onto the street, Not seeing a person we happen to meet, Though many we pass whom we long years have known. Yet hurry along, self absorbed and alone. Alone did I tell you ? Not quite, my old chap. You think it is so, but youve no such mishap, For hosts of odd fancies are walking with you, With old faces hiding the presence of new. You guess you are tired, are needing a rest., A sign you are captured, that thing neath your vest You considered an engine, a filter
The poetical works of Edwin Oscar Gale . their figures so blurred We put on our hat. Without saying a word We rush from our office, out onto the street, Not seeing a person we happen to meet, Though many we pass whom we long years have known. Yet hurry along, self absorbed and alone. Alone did I tell you ? Not quite, my old chap. You think it is so, but youve no such mishap, For hosts of odd fancies are walking with you, With old faces hiding the presence of new. You guess you are tired, are needing a rest., A sign you are captured, that thing neath your vest You considered an engine, a filter, or fount. To keep you in health—of no other account—• Has conquered at length: very sheepish you know \ou look, as again to the office you go, Conceive an excuse why a respite to take. And laugh at the queer ones you finally make. A shortness of breath. A sharp pain in the breast. The doctor, you say, recommends a months rest. You cant understand how the old man should know Youre homesick, and blush on his telling you so,— 100. But bless him for bidding you take the first train,Go back to the scenes of your childhood again. You reach the dear spot on a beautiful morn, The home where yourself and your sisters were born. Delight thrills your soul, though most ready to cry Your smiles and your tears so each other belie. You rush to the barn, you climb up the broad bay, Filled half to the roof with the sweet scented hay; Turn hand-springs and roll in the dim, spacious mows Where hay you pitched down for the horses and cows. While scent of the clover bloom burdened the air, Like incense ascending from altars of prayer. The proud chanticleer you see strutting below, Some rival defying with insolent crow. When cackle of hens announce their last lays He encores to the echo with vocative praise. Again do you go with the pitchfork and rake, Combine the three windrows, the haycocks to make; Ignoring the spider that men now bestride, As horses make hay while they lazily ride. You
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, bookidpoeticalwork, bookyear1906
