He always climbs who might. Whatever our deserts. Your way I own Is a very good way, and still, There are sometimes two straight roads to a town, One over, one under the hill. Your path is the right one, and so is mine. You like its gentle rhyme.
Somebody stands in careless grace, And watches the picture, smiling.
The light burns dim in the hall below, Nobody sees her standing, Saying good-night again, soft and slow, Half way up to the landing. Nobody only the eyes of brown, Tender and full of meaning, That smile on the fairest face in town, Over the banisters leaning. He holds her fingers and draws her down, Suddenly growing bolder, Till the loose hair drops its masses brown, Like a mantle over his shoulder. Over the banisters soft hands, fair, Brush his cheeks like a feather, And bright brown tresses and dusky hair, Meet and mingle together. I have outgrown it.