There’s a spot in the lawn where the swing goes by,
Where the grass is trampled to the joyous cry
Of the children, as they push and pump for greatest height
With squeals and shouts of sheer delight.
Time comes when the children must go their way,
And the swing hangs limp through the summer day
With only the breeze to stir the seat,
And grass grows in the spot worn by childish feet.
The years go by, and the tree grows tall,
Where the limp swing sways by the garden wall.
The flowers grow in their well-groomed plot
And are never picked by one who “forgot”.
As time goes by, comes a wondrous day,
When the children’s children come to play,
And a new rope seems to be the thing
To put in repair the old, old swing.
They rush and shout to see who goes first,
And memories rush with a yearning thirst
As they cry out, “Grandpa, push me high,”
Over the spot in the lawn where the swing goes by.
Written by Herbert May