I was but one of ten young alchemists
Who blended toil with laughter into play;
Who always held their April beauty-trysts
With violets and drank from the Milky-Way;
Who knew how straight and tall a pine could grow
Upon a sloping hill though reaching high;
Who often rose at dawn to stand tiptoe
Upon a youthful dream to touch the sky;
Who knelt around the circled chairs at night
And talked with God; in morning knelt again,
Then labored joyously within His light
And found Him in the fields of grain. These ten
Now silver-haired and far from homestead sod,
Still hold a rendezvous with joy and God.
