Daily Jewelz

Page: 4

 

 

 

Sometimes By Thomas S. Jones, Jr. Across the fields of yesterday He sometimes comes to me, A little lad just back from play– The lad I used to be. And yet he smiles so wistfully Once he has crept within, I wonder if he hopes to see The man I might have been.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass on a summer day listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is hardly a waste of time. — John Lubbock

 


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