I guess it is all in the point of view -- That a joy is a joy or a pain a pain, That a thing is easy or hard to do, That the heart will sing or the heart complain, According to how it appeals to you. There's a little house by the P.R.R. -- I bet you have passed it lots of times As you sat alone in your parlor car -- Perhaps you've seen how the ivy climbs, Hiding each crack and stain and scar. Yes, I know you have. That's an ivy vine That you seldom see in a land so young. I planted it back in '@35@19, And through all the years like a friend it's clung To this little old humble house of mine. And the roses, too, you must have seen -- Two perfect ones by the open door, As pink as the cheeks of a fairy queen. On the southward side there are seven more, White, yellow, and all of the shades between. And here I water and 'tend and prune And watch and gather and fool along And know about all there is of tune And hear about all there is of song -- And that's a heap in the month of June. I figure you see me, riding by, You busy man with your big affairs, And think what a life to live, to die Of all of the wide world unawares. But it's all in the point of view, say I. You may pity me. It's a funny thing, But I never pity myself at all: I stir the ground when the robins sing, And then it's Summer, and then it's Fall, Along comes Winter -- and then it's Spring. I guess it's all in the way you see, I guess it's all in the view you take; And you needn't sorrow nor sob for me When you think of the wealth that others make -- For I'm not as poor as I seem to be. |