Amid these scenes that’s most sublime The poet will burst into rhyme, The sculptor molds his clay; The layman shouts his admiration, The artist feels his inspiration, The author writes his play Of tragedy, romance, tales that thrill In these beautiful canons and wonderful hills, Of these marvelous Rocky Mountains.
Though oceans divide, apart they roam, True love will contrive to find its own; In darkest night or cloudy day, True love will delight to find the way. You can’t stop its course or bar its route, Love surely will force its own way out; It will come to all, it’s always gay, In hovel or hall, it finds its way.
The fields are full of flowers, The sky is very blue; In these bright morning hours I’m thinking, love, of you. If I, with love and laughter, Could drive away your tears, I’d chance the whole hereafter Eternity of years.
Life offers us but little, So little we can lose; My patience you but nettle When you my love refuse; Our happiness may vanish Before the sun will set; Would you our pleasure banish And live but to regret?
A fool there was, so the story goes, Who fell in love with some feminine clothes, And a bit of a bone and a hank of hair, That’s known as the woman that did not care; But a fool must follow his natural bent, So it wasn’t long ’fore his goods were spent. When he was stripped to his foolish hide It naturally followed she threw him aside, But memory of happiness still survived-- So some of him lived, if most of him died.
A wise man, too, whom everyone knows, Once fell in love with some feminine clothes And a bit of a bone and a hank of hair, That’s known as the woman who did not care, That the fool had called his lady fair; But the man of wisdom--he did not dare, Though he loved as much, his will was strong; He knew the world would say ’twas wrong, And say it as though they were sincere, To love this woman who had a career. Then she must go, or the world would scoff If they knew of his love, so he cast her off. He lived alone and he soon grew rich, For he hadn’t been tarred by the vampire’s pitch. To himself he said, he was doing right, Though he craved for her love both day and night-- ’Twas then he sought, as he but knows, For the one he loved in those feminine clothes, And the hank of hair and the bit of bone That had gone her way and left him alone, For she had pride and she’d never forgive-- He never died--for he never did live; He had bowed to the world, had been its tool-- Who was the wise man and who was the fool?