The Old White TentAnd the blaze flickers up from the grate, Sweet mirrors of joys, in the haze, appear When I swung with a youthful gait; And I see, as the pipe seems to carry me back To the scenes of the dear old days, The touches of Life, that have been "green spots", As I sit, and fondly gaze. There are school days there in the long ago There are flowers of early spring, There are pictures rare of the orchard fair There are song birds on the wing There are picnics out in the grand, grand woods Where the feast was spread in the shade There are barefoot days, of the early Mays When far from home we strayed. There's a picture, dearer perhaps than all, Of a tent where the campfire burned, Where we sat by the glow of the crackling blaze As the hour of midnight turned. Oh the thrills that came, with the snapping twig Or the rustle of leaves close by! Or the hoot of the owl from the old oak tree That bade us in haste to fly! Sweet joys of the great, out doors are mine And my heart still bursts to song Of the sweet hours spent in the old white tent, Though I'm now in a city's throng. Yes, mirrored again as I sit in my chair, Are the faces that seem to wait As I light my pipe when the evening comes And the blaze flickers up from the grate __Ed Blair |
Random Rhymes
Ed Blair
(Spring Hill, Kansas: New Era Publishing Co. 1939)
Page 8
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