The little boy on the garden gate
Sings and swings.
He dreameth not of the march of fate,
How the hours will glide, and the heart must wait
For the prize to which it clings.
He thinketh now that his boyhood time
Will ripen soon into manhood’s prime,
And honor, and riches, and great renown
May send his name to the ages down.
He gazeth south and he gazeth north,
He swingeth back and he swingeth forth,
And his heart beats high, as the heart of kings,
For his soul is poised on the future’s wings.
The little boy on the garden gate
Swings and sings.
He loitereth there till the hour is late,
The Garden Gate
And his heart grows large with a joy innate,
At life’s upwelling springs.
For the gladdening present, the nights and days
Are the stars that guide into happy ‘ways.
He thinks of the flowers and the streams that rise
Under his feet ‘neath the glancing skies.
He looketh east and he looketh west.
Till the day has gone to its glorious rest ;
For his soul is dreaming of beautiful things,
And his heart beats high as the heart of kings.
The little boy on the garden gate
Sings and swings.
He will stand not long ; he will cease to wait,
On the outward march of an inward fate,
Or wild imaginings.
He may rise into manhood’s lofty pride,
And virtue and beauty his course may guide ;
He may stand as a rock, on the common mart,
He may win his way to the world’s great heart ;
He may win his honors and wear his crown,
And the false and the base at his feet lie down.
That is the boy who swings and sings,
On the garden gate, that sings and swings;
He may stand one day with the best of kings.
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