| |
| THE EARTH keeps some vibration going | |
| There in your heart, and that is you. | |
| And if the people find you can fiddle, | |
| Why, fiddle you must, for all your life. | |
| What do you see, a harvest of clover? | 5 |
| Or a meadow to walk through to the river? | |
| The wind’s in the corn; you rub your hands | |
| For beeves hereafter ready for market; | |
| Or else you hear the rustle of skirts | |
| Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove. | 10 |
| To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust | |
| Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth; | |
| They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy | |
| Stepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.” | |
| How could I till my forty acres | 15 |
| Not to speak of getting more, | |
| With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos | |
| Stirred in my brain by crows and robins | |
| And the creak of a wind-mill—only these? | |
| And I never started to plow in my life | 20 |
| That some one did not stop in the road | |
| And take me away to a dance or picnic. | |
| I ended up with forty acres; | |
| I ended up with a broken fiddle— | |
| And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories, | 25 |
| And not a single regret. | |
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