The fire upon the hearth does lay,
With grey smoke mist ascending.
I sit and watch and dream of May,
Nod awhile, just dreaming.
Of fields and flowers, soft winds blowing,
Pleasures without number.
Swimming holes and fishing poles,
Things I'll do,
Day upon day just flowing by,
Nights so quickly passing.
Youth and dreams, such fragile things,
Like winter, never lasting.
But smells of honeysuckle vines,
Through my mind does wander.
Again I walk those dusty paths.
Ah - the things I'll do,
Now the days are long and dry,
With hardly a breeze a'stirring.
The corn is nearly two feet high,
And I'm laying here just worrying.
My mind drifts back to cooler days,
And nights by firesides tender.
Of snow piled high,
I dream and sigh,
Oh, the things I'll do,