On the Garden Gate
The little boy on the garden gate
Sings and swings.
He dreameth not of the march of fate,
How the hours will glide, and the heart must wait
For the prize to which it clings.
William Charles Butler
The little boy on the garden gate
Sings and swings.
He dreameth not of the march of fate,
How the hours will glide, and the heart must wait
For the prize to which it clings.