A Cabbage Patch
Folk ask if I'm alive, / Most think I'm not;
I count each day a little life,
With birth and death complete;
I cloister it from care and strife
And keep it sane and sweet.
With eager eyes I greet the morn,
Exultant as a boy,
Knowing that I am newly born
To wonder and to joy.
And when the sunset splendours wane
And ripe for rest am I,
Knowing that I will live again,
Exultantly I die.
O that all Life were but a Day
Sunny and sweet and sane!
And that at Even I might say:
I sleep to wake again.
Folk ask if I'm alive, / Most think I'm not;
I am the Cannon King, behold! / I perish on a throne of gold.
I love the cheery bustle / Of children round the house,
He wrote a play; by day and night / He strove with passion and delight;