OLD THINGS by THOMAS T. BLEWETT

I love to smell old books.
They breathe out just a hint of rose
From petals pressed by lovers' hands
So long, so long ago.
Old roses and old books.

Old cottages with sagging walls, and doors
That scarce will close; and splintered floors all worn
From many little feet and heavy shoes
And dainty slippers. Yet the ghosts are there.
These crumbling walls have seen their share of life,
Of births, and death, and pain, and blighted hopes;
Of wedding plans, romance, and starting tears.
And life has mellowed these dear rooms, so long,
So long ago.
Old cottages and ghosts.

Old songs should not be sung,
But hummed, and then by some dear soul
Re-living all her maiden dreams
And cherishings, though in her heart
Their trampled fragments still she holds.
Old songs and maiden dreams.

Old books, old cottages, old songs;
Rose leaves and lovers' hands;
Old rooms and ghosts;
Fragments of dreams.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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