Sometimes it is as thus the story doth unfold,
But sometimes it is as such some thing’s are best untold.
Like whichever way the tree doth bend,
Will be whichever way the wind will blow,
And the paper boats will dream down stream,
Besides the breeze and currents that flow.
So where babies lie asleep
may May blossoms fall awake;
For since winters have passed grey and gold;
‘Sometimes’ is sad because,
“Sometimes the good die young,” they say,
But sometimes the good they may grow old.