When summer's in the city,
And brick's a blaze of heat,
The Ice-Cream Man with his little cart
Goes trundling down the street.
Beneath his round umbrella,
Oh, what a joyful sight,
To see him fill the cones with mounds
Of cooling brown or white:
Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry,
Or chilly things to drink
From bottles full of frosty-fizz
Green, orange, white or pink.
His cart might be a flower bed
Of roses or sweet peas,
The way the children cluster round
As thick as honey bees.
There isn't time, there isn't time
To do the things I want to do,
With all the mountain-tops to climb,
And the woods to wander through,
And all the seas to sail upon,
And everywhere there is to go,
And all the people, every one
Who lives upon the earth, to know.
There's only time,there's only time
To know a few and do a few,
And sit down and make a rhyme
About the rest I want to do
There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul
God and his son Jesus.
My parents...
And Micah Nimmo changed my life.