The Playing-Ground

Just outside the park, a man
Is lying on his bed;
Silence, save for all the children’s
Voices in his head —

Old and left for dying, but
The laughter he hears still,
As autumn blows the spirits by,
As Lord knows, autumn will —

For heartbeats are a miracle,
And life a wasted gift,
The people we should hold and love
Are left alone to shift,

The playing-ground is empty, and
The carefree world is vast,
While just outside the park,
Another heart will beat

Its last

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