The Old Postman

There's an old postman that I know.

Up and down I see him go,

But oh! so lagging move his feet

From house to house along the street.

His back is bent with a double stoop,

And his shoulders have a sagging droop.

Queer just letters could bend him so—

Small, light squares a breath can blow

With one quick puff so far and wide.

I think it must be things inside;

All the thoughts that letters tell:

Who are sick and who are well;

Who are merry, who forlorn;

People buried; babies born.

Letters sweet like songs of birds,

Letters full of wise long words,

Letters big and letters small—

Our old postman brings them all

In the bag upon his back

(Strange, I think, it doesn't crack!)

As up and down the streets he bears

Everybody's joys and cares.