Old Ben

Sad is old Ben Thistlewaite, Now his day is done, And all his children Far away are gone.

He sits beneath his jasmined porch, His stick between his knees, His eyes fixed vacant On his moss-grown trees.

Grass springs in the green path, His flowers are lean and dry, His thatch hangs in wisps against The evening sky.

He has no heart to care now, Though the winds will blow Whistling in his casement, And the rain drip thro'.

He thinks of his old Bettie, How she'd shake her head and say, 'You'll live to wish my sharp old tongue Could scold--some day,'

But as in pale high autumn skies The swallows float and play, His restless thoughts pass to and fro, But nowhere stay.

Soft, on the morrow, they are gone; His garden then will be Denser and shadier and greener, Greener the moss-grown tree.