THE LITTLE OLD HOUSE

Around the door red roses grow, And as the soft June breezes blow, Shy little dreams from petals creep And mystic tryst with memory keep. They let their tiny fingers rest Upon the old wall’s broken crest, They lift their little faces high As if to touch the clear blue sky. They try to ease the bitter smart, That lives within the broken heart Of the sad house, so brown and old, That ’neath the flaming sun is cold. Shy little dreams—your labor’s vain; The little house won’t smile again.