They live until they die, no more, no less.
They raise their children, and their children’s children,
And return to the earth whence they came.
They weather the winter, and laugh in the sun,
And weep for their sorrows.
They live in a familiar house, with overgrown yards,
And they toil as best they can.
They cannot see beyond the screen door,
But for the great green oaks that shade their yard.
They are as the children who rise everyday, and go to play.
And for this, I commend them:
For no God, nor Demon, nor war, nor poverty
Shall keep them from this life,
Just as the oaks that shade their door.