I like the way its “S” stood out to show the week’s beginning, (In these new-fangled calendars the days seem sort of mixed), And the man upon the cover, though he wa’n’t exactly winnin’, With lungs and liver all exposed, still showed how we are fixed; And the letters and credentials that was writ to Mr. Ayer I’ve often on a rainy day found readin’ pretty fair.
I tried to buy one recently; there wa’n’t none in the city! They toted out great calendars, in every shape and style. I looked at ’em in cold disdain, and answered ’em in pity— “I’d rather have my almanac than all that costly pile.” And though I take to city life, I’m lonesome after all For that old yellow almanac upon my kitchen wall.
Somebody’s baby was buried to-day— The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back, And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay As I paused on the walk while it crossed on its way, And a shadow seemed drawn o’er the sun’s golden tract.
Somebody’s baby was laid out to rest, White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold, And the soft little hands were crossed over the breast, And those hands and the lips and the eyelids were pressed With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold.
Somebody saw it go out of her sight, Under the coffin lid—out through the door; Somebody finds only darkness and blight All through the glory of summer-sun light; Somebody’s baby will waken no more.
Somebody’s sorrow is making me weep: I know not her name, but I echo her cry, For the dearly bought baby she longed so to keep, The baby that rode to its long-lasting sleep In the little white hearse that went rumbling by.
I know not her name, but her sorrow I know; While I paused on the crossing I lived it once more, And back to my heart surged that river of woe That but in the breast of a mother can flow; For the little white hearse has been, too, at _my_ door.
I tread the paths of earlier times Where all my steps were set to rhymes.
I gaze on scenes I used to see When dreaming of a vague To be.
I walk in ways made bright of old By hopes youth-limned in hues of gold.
But lo! those hopes of future bliss Seem dull beside the joy that _is_.
My noonday skies are far more bright Than those dreamed of in morning’s light,