In a garden where there's not
Any prejudicial seeds
Of the mean, malicious weeds,
I have buried all the faults
In their deep, and narrow vaults
Of the friends I've learned to love;
And, I've tramped the sod above,
So that never more they'll show,
So they never more can grow!
Yes, this quiet little spot
Holds all things that I would blot.
(Spring Hill, Kansas: New Era Publishing Co. 1939)