From the Rock Island Argus, May 4, 1914. By Henry Howland.
The sun may shine again—I s’pose it will.
But I’ll not care a cuss nor shout with glee;
The orchard trees may blossom on the hill,
But that’ll make no difference to me.
The ones who like the smell of new-plowed ground
And think a wild rose beautiful and sweet
Will probably still want to tramp around,
Glad that the sod is soft beneath their feet.
The boys will build their little boats and let
Them float on rivers I could step across;
The yearlings, with their scraggy coats, will get
Out in the fields and gain a shiny gloss.
The cows will stand and chew their cud and dream,
But I’ll not care a cuss nor shout with glee;
The fisherman will loll beside the stream,
But that will make no difference to me.
The people in the busy town will try,
No matter what they have, to still have more;
The lights will flicker and the flags will fly,
The wheels will keep on turnin’ as before.
On Sunday mornings they will ring the bells,
At quittin’ time they’ll blow the whistles, too;
The home run will be followed by loud yells,
And men may sing at what they have to do.
The world will still roll on, but there is one
Who said last night that “it could never be;”
I s’pose we’ll still have sunshine from the sun,
But that’ll make no difference to me.
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