March, 2011

Another March, ambivalent:
Winter, summer, sun, or wind,
Rain or snow.
Just six of one, or of the other,
Never really warming,
Sometimes really cold.
Like the Marches of our lives,
No longer child, nor fully grown.
It's so easy in October
When we know
What's coming next.

Two of my grandsons visited New York recently, and one of the main attractions was a trip to the Statue of Liberty. That put me in mind of Emma Lazerus and her moving poem. The words have been put to music--Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians produced a choral rendition that has now begun to play over and over in my head:

Send me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breath free,
The restless refuse of your teeming shores.
Send these, the hopeless, tempest-tossed to me.
I lift my lamp beside the Golden Door.

And that triggers another story with the lady with the lamp in it:

The torch I carry is handsome.
It's worth a heartache in ransome.
And when twilight steals,
I know how the lady in the harbor feels.

When I want rain, I get sunny weather.
I'm just as blue as the sky.
Since love has gone, can't get myself together.
Guess I'll hang my tears out to dry.

Friends ask me out.
I tell them I'm busy.
I need a new aliby.
I sit at home and ask myself, "Who is he?"
Guess I'll hang my tears out to dry.

Dry little teardrops,
My little teardrops
Hanging on a string of dreams.
Dry little memories,
My little memories
Remind me of our crazy schemes.

Some people said, "Just forget about her."
I gave that treatment a try.
Strangely enough I got along without her.
Then one day she passed me right by. Oh well,
I guess I'll hang my tears out to dry.

Anybody know who wrote that? Pretty song.