It was on the hillside,
Our farmhouse was just below,
My mom and dad and me,
Every summer berry picking would go.
I ate some berries as I picked,
The thorns sometimes pricked my skin,
But berry picking was a lot of fun,
I sure wish I could go again.
My little dog is gone,
My mother and father too,
But I am still here,
Wondering what I should do.
I don't feel like playing on the hill,
Or wading in the stream,
Maybe I will wake up soon,
And find this growing old was just a dream.
It is not easy to let go,
Of loved ones who are gone now,
Of the happy memories of childhood.
But one has to go on somehow.
As the country road I drive,
The farm houses that I view,
And the roadside country scene,
Remind me of what once I knew.
My time is running out,
But you will always roll on,
Oh, mighty Mississippi!
You will never be gone.
Well, I am growing old,
And sometimes I'm feeling sad,
But you keep right on flowing,
And for that I am glad.
Infinitely Whirled
Intangible shapes formed in thought,
By the sheathed ganglia wrought,
Once they were of life's panorama,
Now they enfold a dream's misty drama.
Am I now here or was I there?
It seems now I am almost everywhere,
The mind is not mine anymore,
I am not contained there like before.
For now my thoughts are infinitely whirled,
colors, patterns, shapes vividly unfurled,
As I rapidly travel over valley and peak,
On a journey of which I cannot speak.
