Somebody labored years ago
Whose name I do not know,
Plowed ground or sailed the open sea
And loved a maiden that I might be.

Two centuries ago or more
A woman at an English door
Looked fondly at a lilac tree
And passed that bit of pride to me.

One stood enraptured when she heard
The music of a singing bird.
And now, with each returning spring,
I find I do the self-same thing.

Could we untangle all our lives
And learn how much in us survives
We might discover just how far
Goes back what makes us what we are.

Author unknown



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