Will Carleton (1845 – 1912)
American poet, who wrote mostly about rural life.
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Things at home are crossways, and Betsy and I are out.
Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way.
Not a log in this buildin' but its memories has got
And not a nail in this old floor but touches a tender spot.
There's lots of people—this town wouldn't hold them;
Who don't know much excepting what's told them.
Fare you well, old house! you're naught that can feel or see,
But you seem like a human bein'—a dear old friend to me;
And we never will have a better home, if my opinion stands,
Until we commence a-keepin' house in the house not made with hands.
To appreciate heaven well
'T is good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell.
Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her own.
I don't complain of Betsy or any of her acts,
Exceptin' when we 've quarreled and told each other facts.
Yellow, mellow, ripened days, Sheltered in a golden coating; O'er the dreamy, listless haze, White and dainty cloudlets floating; Winking at the blushing trees, And the sombre, furrowed fallow; Smiling at the airy ease, Of the southward flying swallow Sweet and smiling are thy ways, Beauteous, golden Autumn days.
The more we arg'ed the question the more we did n't agree.
I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me,
And so we've agreed together that we can't never agree.
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