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Rachel Lyman Field

The Grass Island

The little grass island I call my own,

For it all belongs to me,

It lies in the place where four roads meet,

With a signpost for a tree.

Nobody needs it to build a house,

It's far too small, you see,

But there's room for daisies and blue-eyed grass,

And plenty of room for me.

The cars flash by and the hay carts pass

Like ships on a long brown sea,

And the folk aboard them smile and nod

And wave their hands to me.