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Title: The Little Old House By The Shore
Author: Joseph Crosby Lincoln [
More Titles by Lincoln]
It stands at the bend where the road has its end,
And the blackberries nod on the vine;
And the sun flickers down to its gables of brown,
Through the sweet-scented boughs of the pine.
The roof-tree is racked and the windows are cracked,
And the grasses grow high at the door,
But hid in my heart is an altar, apart,
To the little old house by the shore.
For its portal so bare was a Paradise rare,
With the blossoms that clustered above,
When a mother's dear face gave a charm to the place
As she sang at her labor of love.
And the breeze, as it strays through the window and plays
With the dust and the leaves on the floor,
Is a memory sweet of the pattering feet
In the little old house by the shore.
And again in my ears, through the dream of the years,
They whisper, the playmates of old,
The brother whose eyes were a glimpse of the skies,
The sister with ringlets of gold;
And Father comes late to the path at the gate,
As he did when the fishing was o'er,
And the echoes ring out, at our welcoming shout,
From the little old house by the shore.
But the night-wind has blown and the vision has flown,
And the sound of the children is still,
And the shadowy mist, like a spirit, has kissed
The graves by the church on the hill;
But softly, afar, sing the waves on the bar,
A song of the sunshine of yore:
A lullaby deep for the loved ones who sleep
Near the little old house by the shore.
[The end]
Joseph Crosby Lincoln's poem: Little Old House By The Shore
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