Page:Poems Piatt.djvu/165

Could we only catch and bind him,
 To some prison, shutting low,
Where the sun could never find him,
 This Old Man should surely go.
We would steal his scythe away,
 (Grass should grow about our feet,)
And he should not take to-day
 From us while to-day was sweet.

Gypsy ways he has, most surely,
 (Gypsy ways are hardly right;)
Wandering, stealing, yet securely
 Keeping somehow out of sight.
From our trees the fruit he shakes;
 Silver, lace, or silk we miss
From our houses; this he takes—
 This, and other things than this.

Here he comes with buds that wither;
 Here he comes with birds that fly;
Pretty playthings he brings hither,
 Just to take them by and by.
He could find you in the night,
 Though you should put out the moon—
He can see without a light,
 He will take the Baby soon.