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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SIXTEEN DEAD MEN by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS SONGS WITH PRELUDES: REGRET by JEAN INGELOW EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES: DIALOGUE 1 by ALEXANDER POPE A MORNING THOUGHT by EDWARD ROWLAND SILL TWENTY BLOCKS by EGMONT HEGEL ARENS |