Classic Poem

On the roof the rain is falling,
And with wistful eyes I gaze
Backward to the scenes of childhood,
Gone by, happy, dreamy days.

I can see the old stone mansion
With its square built spacious rooms.
And its wide and ample porches
Twined with honey-suckle blooms.

But my mind is over-shadowed
With a bit of grief and gloom,
As my fancy takes me onward
To the low-roofed attic-room.

Barrels full of time-worn papers
And books in this attic stood,
Trinkets strangely old and curious,
Filled great chests of cedar wood.

Furniture was there all broken,
So old-fashioned, strange and queer,
Ruffled, silken petticoats,
And grotesquely-shaped head-gear.

Among this old and cast-off rubbish
Lots of fun I oft have seen,
With my brothers, Frank and Willie,
And my sister Josephine.

Not for all the wealth of Croesus,
Nor for castle walls of kings
Would I change that low-roofed attic,
With its queer old-fashioned things.

For a wealth of pure enjoyment
Round that attic-room was wound,
Which through all the years that followed
Nowhere in the world I've found.

Brothers, sisters, we are parted,
From that home we're far away;
With its weather-beaten attic, —
Ah, we're far from it to-day.

Oft in those days I've mentioned
'Neath its rafters brown we dwelt,
Where from pelting rain and hail storm
Safe, securely safe we felt.