Classic Poem

It's a long time ago and a poor time to boast of,
The foolish old time of two young people's start;
But sweet were the days that young love made the most of —
So short by the clock, and so long by the heart!
We lived in a cottage in old Greenwich Village,
With a tiny clay plot that was burnt brown and hard;
But it softened at last to my girl's patient tillage,
And the roses sprang up in our little back yard.

The roses sprang up and the yellow day-lilies;
And heartease and pansies, sweet Williams and stocks,
And bachelors' buttons and bright daffodillies
Filled green little beds that I bordered with box.
They were plain country posies, bright-hued and sweet-smelling,
And the two of us worked for them, worked long and hard;
And the flowers she had loved in her old-country dwelling
They made her at home in our little back yard.

In the morning I dug while the breakfast was cooking,
And went to the shop, where I toiled all the day;
And at night I returned, and I found my love looking
With her bright country eyes down the dull city way.
And first she would tell me what flowers were blooming,
And her soft hand slipped into a hand that was hard,
And she led through the house, till a breeze came perfuming.
Our little back hall from our little back yard.

It was long, long ago, and we haven't grown wealthy;
And we don't live in state up in Madison Square:
But the old man is hale, and he's happy and healthy,
And his wife's none the worse for the grey in her hair.
Each year lends a sweeter new scent to the roses;
Each year makes hard life seem a little less hard;
And each year a new love for old lovers discloses —
Come, wife, let us walk in our little back yard!