You may tell in fondest phrases How Venetian glory raises Sunlit domes and basking marbles as her streets flow to the sea; Sing of Florence or Geneva Or the Bay of Naples; weave a Web of sentiment--but leave a Little sentiment for me.
Where the warm Atlantic waters Lave your laughing sons and daughters By a hundred sunny cities where her tides flow full and free, Or on Caribbean beaches While the water pulls and reaches At your heart-strings--in your speeches Save a sentiment for me.
San Francisco's golden fulgor, Catalina's horticulture, Every symphony of gladness, every gaiety there be; Every land and every nation Somewhere claim your admiration: From your meed of approbation Save your fealty to me.
Cloudless skies and peerless weather Link my hearts and homes together And the crisp, pure air of Winter vitalizes blood and brain; Prairie breezes softly blowing, Wheat fields' rustle--cattle lowing-- Broader visions coming--growing-- Woo, O lands, ye woo in vain!
Well, no, I'm not superstitious,--at least, I don't call it that,-- But when someone spins a creepy yarn I don't deny it flat, For a man who spends a lifetime with the throttle in his hand Is bound to have adventures that he cannot understand; I sometimes think our knowledge here is but a sorry show,-- We're only on the borderland of what there is to know.
I used to think a man could know all things that could be known; That he should not acknowledge any power above his own; That, however strange the circumstance, there always is a cause That is in complete obedience to some of Nature's laws; But I couldn't shake conviction off, no matter how I tried, And I've changed my way of thinking since the night that Willie died.
Yes, Willie was my little son--my greatest earthly joy-- And wife and I just kind o' seemed to dote upon the boy; When I was out on duty she would hover round the lad, And treasure up his sayings to repeat them to his dad; And every night, at lighting time, I knew that, without fail, His baby lips were praying for the man out on the rail. . . .
Ah, well, for three short years we knew what such a treasure is, And we grew ever more attached to those sweet ways of his; When one day, swinging through the gate, I saw, with blanching face, My wife as pale as ashes, and a doctor in the place. . . . I tried to go in steady, but my knees were knocking hard, And the light went out of heaven as I staggered up the yard.