  He planted a tree, on the old home land, Where the summer sunlight stayed, Tho’ he knew full well he should never stand ’Neath it’s fruit and pleasing shade. He penciled a book, in his life’s last year, When the inspiration came, Tho’ he knew his heart it could never cheer With it’s gold and certain fame. But the leaves of his tree grew, day by day, While it’s fruit the hungry fed; And the fruit of his book will ever stay While it’s leaves are daily read. |
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