At The Fireside
By John Davis Long
At nightfall by the firelight’s cheer
My little Margaret sits me near,
And begs me tell of things that were
When I was little, just like her.
Ah, little lips, you touch the spring
Of sweetest sad remembering;
And hearth and heart flash all aglow
With ruddy tints of long ago!
I at my father’s fireside sit,
Youngest of all who circle it,
And beg him tell me what did he
When he was little, just like me.
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