Out on a jaunt, as is my wont-
an early, fresh spring morning.
Out in a field of lush green yield--
suddenly without warning.
An old rock well, it's oaken pail
suspended on its frame--
stood mute and alone and in a hushed tone
I said" Tell me from whence you came?"
As if in reply, the pail seemed to sigh-
creaking gently in the breeze--
I turned around, and became spellbound--
a house stood in the trees!
With columns tall, and marbled hall-
a mute testimonial,
with double doors and parquet floors---
be still, my heart--a Colonial!
Honeysuckle vines lovingly entwine
an ancient oak, her branches cloak
the lady in perpetual shade.
The winds aloft, sighing soft-limbs
swaying to and fro,
set the birds to singing-a rope to swinging-
imbedded in a branch long ago.
I entered inside-a sense of pride
engulfed my very being--
an old velvet chaise-a grand staircase-
in wonder-I absorb what I'm seeing.
I've often thought-if walls could talk--
what message would they bring?
A tousled head-a trundle bed--
a porch-a tire-a swing?
Would they recall a marbled hall-
a Porte Cachere-a carriage?
of columns tall,Le Grande Ball,
velvet walls, a marriage?
Or would they tell of living Hell-
of souls unforgiving--?
of rage and fears and futile tears--
a hopeless way of living?
Would they disclose the secrets of those
whose tapestry we're unfolding?
Or would they keep their privacy deep
and let us do the unmolding?
Betty C. Daniels