When I drive through
The villages and the countryside
In early evening,
And see people sitting in gardens
Or at their doors
In peace and contentment,
I long to stop and speak to them.
They might tell me of a loved one
Doing some great work
In a big city,
Or of a deep sorrow,
And I might say a word
To help lighten it.
They might show me treasured china
Or a bit of lace, handmade;
Once some one did.
And I could talk with the children.
I long to do this,
But it always seems
That there is a hurry
To get to the next place.