There`s nothing that builds up a toil-weary soul Like a day on a stream, Back on the banks of the old fishing hole Where a fellow can dream. There`s nothing so good for a man as to flee From the city and lie Full length in the shade of a whispering tree And gaze at the sky. Out there where the strife and the greed are forgot And the struggle for pelf, A man can get rid of each taint and each spot And clean up himself; He can be what he wanted to be when a boy, If only in dreams; And revel once more in the depths of a joy That`s as real as it seems. The things that he hates never follow him there — The jar of the street, The rivalries petty, the struggling unfair — For the open is sweet. In purity`s realm he can rest and be clean, Be he humble or great, And as peaceful his soul may become as the scene That his eyes contemplate. It is good for the world that men hunger to go To the banks of a stream, And weary of sham and of pomp and of show They have somewhere to dream. For this life would be dreary and sordid and base Did they not now and then Seek refreshment and calm in God`s wide, open space And come back to be men.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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