THERE are lads who count the days To the glad vacation time, And their hearts go truanting; Though they walk appointed ways Duteously, the home-bells chime In their ears, the home-birds sing, And they hear their cronies call To some game or festival. I could wish that death might come Like the respite to a task, Or a holiday hard-won. Life's long schooling burdensome Over now, so we may bask In a sense of duty done; In a sense of freedom wide Opening out on every side. |