There's a house of many windows
Standing by the River Fox;
In the cellar of that dwelling
On a shelf, a dusty box
Placed there by a sweet, young maiden
On the day she went away,
It's contents very dry and brittle
Undiscovered to this day;
But wafting there upon occasion
Near the place where she last stood,
Is the fragrance of arbutus
Gathered from the great North Wood.
In a bedroom dresser drawer,
A stained imprint there where they lay,
Are what's left of precious flowers:
A tiny violet bouquet.
And the little golden locket
That lay hidden on her breast,
Lies there by the faded violets
A symbol of young love repressed.
When that dresser drawer is opened
On a sunny April day,
The scent of dewy, fresh, wild violets
Emerges from the dried bouquet.
At a place beside the river,
'Though there's not a soul in sight,
Can be heard the ring of ice skates
On a wintry moonlit night.
And gay laughs of two young lovers
As hand in hand they swiftly move
O'er the glist'ning icy water
Joined forever now in love.
And it's said in early springtime,
When the river tides are high,
Bloom the violets and arbutus
At the place they said goodbye.
In a dusty little attic
In a farmhouse far away,
Are a bundle of love letters
Written in a former day.
And on a rainy day in August,
When there is nobody there,
There is heard the sound of footsteps
On the ancient, creaky stair.
'Though no hand is seen to lift them,
The parchment rustles, it is said,
And a teardrop falls so gently
On the letters as they're read.
There's a place where all is perfect;
Real arbutus, violets there,
And their perfume, sweet and fragrant
Everlasting fills the air.
Hand in hand they walk together
The two in love where they belong,
But the spirit tends to wander
Where a love was young and strong.

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Majel

Who is this child with hair of gold
Who looks at me through bright blue eyes
And runs to me on wingéd feet
Each time she hears my faintest cries
This child whom Papa tosses high
Each time she greets him at the door
And showers him with kisses sweet
Before he puts her on the floor
Then holds her hand as she skips by
My little bed with scarce a look
And takes her gently on his knee
As they snuggle in his cozy nook?

I wish it were me.

But mama croons a lullaby
To me and tells me never mind.
And whispers soon I shall grow up
Where love in plenty I shall find.
"Your sister's merely older dear,
"And you --you're mama's little dove."
I can't help wondering, sleepily
If I can ever win my papa's love.

W.I.S.H..IT.. W.E.R.E   M.E ....

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Dearest Girl

"Dearest Girl," the letter read,
I'm going overseas,
I'll be there two days from now
And could you meet me please?"

"I've missed you so," the note went on.
How long the days have seemed.
Can it be true you love me still,
Or is it that I've dreamed?"

Her heart sang out in happiness
Bemused with joy and sorrow,
For a ship would take him off to France
And they'd just have tomorrow.

So cautions to the wind, she flew
To meet him at the station,
The east bound train was coming in
And her heart filled with elation.

"He's coming, coming now," she said,
As he stepped down from the train.
Two steps away, his arms enfold
His "Dearest Girl" again.

The time sped by on wingéd feet;
The hours seemed to flee.
While both pledged undying love,
It was not meant to be.

Young love can change and often does
Each with a different world.
But a hero to her he'd always be
And she was his "Dearest Girl".

Promises

This is the place, the very ground
To which she came, young wife,
To make herself a home. She found
A new and very different way of life;
One of mellow voices, softer nights
And quiet days of leisure, movements slow,
Where dusky darkness brought the welcome lights
To Blue Ridge Mountain shadows spread below.
This is the spot, the actual place
To which she brought, young mother,
Her only child, an infant fair of face.
There would not be another.
'Twas here she sang her lullabyes
And rocked the sweet-faced baby in her sleep.
Here she dreamed her dreams and breathed her sighs
And felt the powerful stirrings leap
Within her heart. The pen could not be stilled.
The words came hard, with now so much to do;
So little time, her hours always filled.
But inspiration came within the scope of mountain view.
This is the very place she taught
Those not much younger than herself.
Harsh memories of the war just fought
Were swept aside and stored upon the shelf
Of memory; near yet so far away.
"Though in special moments now and then,
She'd bring them out to help her pray
For peace among all men.
This is the place she grew to love.
Her roots were growing deep
Now in the foothills of the mountains there above.
But there were things she had to do and promises to keep.
So a little bit of her was left behind
For roots grow very deep in mountain soil.
And thenceforth often in her mind
Were magnolia blossoms sweet as perfumed oil
And soft voices blending in the mellow air;
Confederate violets so dainty and so sweet.
Aye, a little part of her still lingers there,
Where the foothills and blue mountains meet.

But she had many, many miles to go
Important things to do
And promises to keep.