<h2>MARGINS</h2>
<h3>BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE</h3>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My dreams so fair that used to be,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The promises of youth's bright clime,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">So changed, alas; come back to me<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Sweet memories of that hopeful time<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Before I learned, with doubt oppressed,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">There are no birds in next year's nest.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The seed I sowed in fragrant spring<br/></span>
<span class="i2">The summer's sun to vivify<br/></span>
<span class="i0">With his warm kisses, ripening<br/></span>
<span class="i2">To golden harvest by and by,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Got caught by drought, like all the rest—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">There are no birds in next year's nest.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The stock I bought at eighty-nine,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">Broke down next day to twenty-eight;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Some squatters jumped my silver mine,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">My own convention smashed my slate;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">No more in "futures" I'll invest—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">There are no birds in next year's nest.<br/></span>
<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_1298" id="Page_1298"></SPAN></span></div>
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