I slip away on rainy days
And climb the attic stair;
Each creaking step I tread alone
Takes me much nearer there.
‘Tis well I know that once inside
The dim and dusty wall
I’ll sit and dream of olden times
And hear? No, not one call.
Ah! There a spider spins its web;
The sun steals in to peep.
It thought that in that olden room
All things were fast asleep.
A spinning wheel one corner fills;
And here a rocking chair;
A cradle near, Ah! someone’s hand
Has rocked it sitting there.
I need not open that worn brown trunk
Within I know are those
White frilly gloves, and pointed shoes
A wedding dress, a rose;
And then some letters ribbon tied
That once were white as snow.
That tarnished trunk keeps precious still
Its dream of long ago.
Dusk finds the attic stairway now,
And slowly creeps along,
To where are left those treasures dear:
The fragments of Life’s song.
But I must hasten down the way
The shades of dark still tread
And leave behind those priceless things:
Those memories of the dead.
– Circa 1945