Memories

By Daisy Whiting

 

I am sitting in Memories Castle,
Surrounded by treasures of old
I am back in the dear old homestead
And these are things I behold

Outside the wind is blowing
But what does it matter to me
I am close by the warm bright fire,
And am singing my dolly to sleep

Hush, Dolly, my darling be quiet,
Cause I've got so much to do
I can't sit here all the morning
Singing and talking to you.

The wings of memory waft me,
The scent of the summer flowers,
And I'm treading again the well known paths
I trod in those happy hours.

And always there wanders beside me
A dear little blue eyed maid;
Her hair is rather tousled,
And her apron is torn I'm afraid

But in all the pictures of Memory
There is none I would rather see
Than this dear little maid with tangled curls
Trotting after me.

Together we stray to the woodland,
And there 'neath its shady bowers,
Hither and thither we gaily flit,
Searching its hidden flowers.

How sweet is the scent of the roses,
That blossom beside the way,
I see them now as I saw them then,
In that dear, deary yesterday.

Ah me, in days of childhood,
The skies are always blue,
The roses always thornless
And the joys of life are new.

For God in His infinite mercy,
Has hidden the future from sight,
And we never dream of the shadows,
That will cloud our day 'ere night.

Again in her favorite corner,
My Mother's dear figure I see,
She swings back adn forth in her rocker
And as I lean on her knee

I whisper "Say Mother
Do you know what I'm going to do
When you are crippled up in the corner
I'll do all the work for you."

She laughs as she smoothes from my forehead,
The curls that are clustering there;
And I think as I gaze on her features
There's no other half so fair.

When Father comes home in evening,
I clamber upon his knee
And I listen to all the stories
That he used to tell to me

The tale of a man in the jungle,
Pursued by a terrible beast;
The tale of the netted lion,
The the mouse who brought release.

And there I sit and listen,
'Till at last I fall asleep,
And all the stories he tells me,
Are mingled with my dreams.

Through this dear old castle of Memory
A long procession goes,
Ever changing, ever new,
Like the tide as it ebbs and flows.

And as they pass before me,
These scenes of long ago,
They play on my trembling heartstrings
Like music soft and low.

It fills my soul with longing,
And a feeling of vain regret,
Sweeps o'er me as I listen
And leaves my lashes wet.

So I’ll close the door to this castle,
This castle of Memory dear,
And softly say "Goodby, old days,
Goodby dear vanished years."

Daisy Evangeline Whiting

1883-1906