GHOSTS OF THE ATTIC.
Memory takes me back to childhoodTo my home upon a hill;I am sitting in the attic,Memories cause my heart to thrill.Now the rain is dropping, dropping,Softly dripping from the eaves,And the wind is sighing, moaningA sad dirge for dying leaves.In the attic there are hangingHerbs of catnip, sage, and mint;Filling all the air with fragrance,While the sunbeams throw a glintThrough the tiny attic windows,Then they rest upon a chest;And this chest seems almost sacred,For beneath its lid doth restA small package of old lettersTied with ribbon once so blue;And the love that is within themOft though told, is ever new.Faded now the ink, and ribbon,And the letters yellow are;But the words which there are writtenFather Time can never mar.They were written by my father,Every word was tender, true,They were love notes to my mother,Even now when brought to view(Though the ink is faded, yellow,)To my eyes they bring hot tears,To my breast a pang of anguish.They are ghosts of other years.Ghosts of love, and truth, and virtue,But these ghosts I would not lay;They are memories of my childhood,And through life shall with me stay.O the subtle, subtle fragranceOf the herbs upon the wall;They now fill my heart with sadness,And to memory they recallMy dear mother, my dear father,And my childhood’s happy years;And forgotten they are never—Ghosts they are which bring no fears.Now the home of my dear parentsIs the grave-yard by the sea.But their love has new awakeningIn the bright eternity.
Memory takes me back to childhoodTo my home upon a hill;I am sitting in the attic,Memories cause my heart to thrill.Now the rain is dropping, dropping,Softly dripping from the eaves,And the wind is sighing, moaningA sad dirge for dying leaves.In the attic there are hangingHerbs of catnip, sage, and mint;Filling all the air with fragrance,While the sunbeams throw a glintThrough the tiny attic windows,Then they rest upon a chest;And this chest seems almost sacred,For beneath its lid doth restA small package of old lettersTied with ribbon once so blue;And the love that is within themOft though told, is ever new.Faded now the ink, and ribbon,And the letters yellow are;But the words which there are writtenFather Time can never mar.They were written by my father,Every word was tender, true,They were love notes to my mother,Even now when brought to view(Though the ink is faded, yellow,)To my eyes they bring hot tears,To my breast a pang of anguish.They are ghosts of other years.Ghosts of love, and truth, and virtue,But these ghosts I would not lay;They are memories of my childhood,And through life shall with me stay.O the subtle, subtle fragranceOf the herbs upon the wall;They now fill my heart with sadness,And to memory they recallMy dear mother, my dear father,And my childhood’s happy years;And forgotten they are never—Ghosts they are which bring no fears.Now the home of my dear parentsIs the grave-yard by the sea.But their love has new awakeningIn the bright eternity.