Back From The Soil

For years I’d lived in city ways,

And written stories, verse and plays;

Lived midst the stress of noise and gloom,

With scarce enough of light and room,

And all the while had longed to be

Where air was pure and room was free.

Ah! just to have a country nook

In which to dream and write a book;

A place to call my very own,

To walk and think and dream alone.

At last we scented such a place,

A spot of dignity and grace,

Where joy and quiet reigned supreme

With nooks in which to muse and dream.

And so we bade the town adieu

And sought for joys in pastures new,

And for a space, the briefest spell,

Life rivalled any marriage bell.

But soon the country ghost arose

And stalked into my calm repose.

The duties of a well-kept place

Arose and smote me in the face.

The neighbors were so good and kind

They occupied my house and mind;

The garden must be tended to –

To let it go would never do.

We must, of course, raise all we eat –

Our produce must be fresh and sweet.

The lawns must have their weekly trim,

The wood supply was always slim,

Repairs were needed everywhere,

The paths and trees all needed care.

Were chores to do and stock to feed,

And every kind of household need.

And every hour from sun to sun

Found yours truly on the run.

I had no time to call my own,

To walk and think and dream alone.

My neighbors, always kind and nice,

Were faithful with their good advice.

But help was scarce, none to be had

And life was daily growing sad.

The cosy nooks! I knew them not,

My plots were naught but garden plots.

No stories, sketches, verse or plays

Were possible in country ways,

And so I’m back in town again

Where one may dream and use his pen!

Nov. 18, 1915