When th.' sunshine's golden-yeller
        Like th' curls upon his head,
     Then he wakes—th' lil' feller—
        An' he jumps up, outen bed;
     An' he scrambles fer his knickers
        Flung, perhaps, upon th' floor,
     An' he takes his hat (my old 'un),
        An' he races through th' door—
     An' I hear his voice, a-singin',
        In his odd, ole-fashioned way,
     'Cause he's glad—th' lil' feller—
        In th' mornin' o' the day.

     Kinder makes me feel, well, lazy,
        So I hurry up, outside,
     Where th' mountains smile down, friendly—
        And th' earth looks sorter wide;
     An' I hear his voice a-callin',
        Sayin', "Daddy, come an' see!"
     An' I find him makin' gardens
        Where a rock pile uster be—
     An' I shout, "How goes it, sonny?"
        An' my heart feels light an' gay,
     Fer he's singin'—lil' feller—
        In th' mornin' o' th' day.

     Lil' feller, an' his gardens!
        It don't matter much ter him,
     If th' hoein's hard an' tedgious,
        An' th' crop he grows is slim;
     Fer he loves ter be a-workin',
        An' he loves ter see things start
     Outer nothin'.... There's a garden
        In th' rock-bed o' my heart
     That he's planted, just by singin'
        In his odd, ole-fashioned way—
     'Cause he's glad, MY LIL' FELLER,
        In th' mornin' o' th' day!

     Down by the end of the lane it stands,
        Where the sumac grows in a crimson thatch,
        Down where the sweet wild berry patch,
     Holds out a lure for eager hands.
     Down at the end of the lane, who knows
        The ghosts that sit at the well-scarred seats,
        When the moon is dark, and the gray sky meets
     With the dawn time light, and a chill wind blows?

     Ghosts—well not ghosts, perhaps, but dreams—
        Rather like wistful shades, that stand
        Waiting a look or an outstretched hand,
     To call them back where the morning gleams—
     Dreams of the hopes we had, that died,
        Dreams of the vivid youth we sold;
        Dreams of a pot of rainbow gold—
     Gold that we sought for, eager-eyed!

     Dreams of the plans we made, that sleep
        With the lesson books on the dusty rack,
        Of the joyous years that will not come back—
     That are drowned in the tears we have learned to
           weep.
     Ghosts did I call them! Sweet they are
        As a plant that grows in a desert place,
        Sweet as a dear remembered face—
     Sweet as a pale, courageous