Attic Poems

Table of Contents

1. The Attic of My Childhood

   Ah! Each mortal has an attic
   Where he stores the broken past—
   Shattered hopes, and hours of gladness,
   Loves that cling until the last.
   

   - Helen Emma Maring
   The Attic of My Childhood

   “

   by Helen Emma Maring

   
   

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   Oh, the wonders of that attic,
   How I loved to climb its stair
   Made of steps just like a ladder
   And a trap door waiting there!
   

   Through fan-shapen windows, streaming,
   Came the golden shafts of sun,
   Through the fairy curtains gleaming,
   That the tireless spiders spun.
   

   There, a distaff, wheel and treadle,
   Lay beneath the sloping roof,
   None there were who knew its uses—
   Gone, the maker of the woof.
   

   There, too, hung a war-time weapon—
   Grandpa's bayonet, so grim.
   He had whipped the Rebel army—
   General Grant a-helping him.
   

   Oh, the treasures of that attic
   Hanging from its rafters bare—
   Coats of velvet, silken dresses,
   Beaded bags, and wreaths of hair.
   

   Hats and bonnets, shoes and slippers,
   Used for masquerades a lot,
   Plant jars and unhandled dippers
   Underneath each leaky spot.
   

   Shawls and scarfs and knitted mittens,
   Colors of the Orient;
   Dolls and doylies, sawdust kittens,
   Oh, the money that was spent!
   

   Strings of buttons, by the thousands,
   Still no making of a pair;
   Margaret sought them from the neighbors
   When she wore beribboned hair.
   

   Dainty bits of china, broken,
   And a precious statue cracked,
   All within their tissue wrappings,
   Tied by loving hands—intact.
   

   Winter apples, there for keeping,
   Spread about upon the floor,
   Big pound-sweets and golden russets,
   But I never left a core.
   

   Piles of butternuts there drying
   Till their satin coats of green
   Turned a sombre brown, all shrunken,
   And the jagged shells were seen.
   

   Whalebone ribs from old umbrellas,
   And I smoked that acrid stuff,
   Till my stomach in rebellion
   Warned me—not another puff.
   

   Hoopskirts, with and without bustles,
   Linen dusters, carpet rags,
   Quilting frames and curtain stretchers,
   Magazines and traveling bags.
   

   Paper sacks of downy feathers
   Waiting there to fill a tick,
   Foot-stools and some other comforts
   Only used when folks were sick.
   

   And within a trunk so aged
   That its sides had turned to gray,
   Were the tear-stained precious treasures
   Of the ones who'd passed away—
   

   Stockings made for brother Tommy,
   Dresses that dear Nannie wore,
   Dainty bits of broidered muslin—
   Grandma's needle-work of yore.
   

   Ah! Each mortal has an attic
   Where he stores the broken past—
   Shattered hopes, and hours of gladness,
   Loves that cling until the last.
   

   Childhood plays within its shadow,
   Manhood lingers in its gloom,
   But Old Age lives midst the splendors,
   There, in Memory's Attic Room.
   

2. The Farmhouse Garret

   by Ellwood Roberts

   
   

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   Afar from the city's dust and noise,
   Beside a grand old wood—
   Away from the busy haunts of men—
   The ancient farmhouse stood.
   By low hills girt was the well-tilled vale,
   A picture ever fair;
   The fields were green and the skies were blue,
   And all was peaceful there.
   

   A building quaint was that farmhouse old.
   In the days so long gone by,
   And its dearest nook to us children all,
   The garret, strange and high.
   The roof ran up to a peak above,
   The rafters all were bare,
   No plaster covered the space between,
   We saw the shingles there.
   

   Life then was new and the world unknown;
   A paradise to me
   That garret old, with its treasures heaped,
   Its wonders, strange to see.
   Its worn old books had a charm, indeed,
   I read them, hour by hour;
   No stories like theirs I find to-day,
   Not one has half their power.
   

   We children played in that garret old
   From noon till twilight fell;
   To our young hearts it was fairy-land;
   How weird yet seems the spell!
   Sometimes we heard on the roof outside,
   The pattering rain-drops fall;
   But what cared we for the world beyond,
   To whom our play was all?
   

   The hours flew swiftly, unheeded, by,
   And all too soon came night;
   While there we mimicked the ways of men,
   With sense of keen delight.
   The years fled fast, and the happy days
   Of childhood passed away;
   Time came when we left the farmhouse old,
   And ended all our play.
   

   From that wonder-land, so full of joy,
   Shut out, we scarce know how,
   All, all is changed, and the mimic fun
   Is sober earnest, now.
   The world and its ways familiar grown—
   Its marvels understood—
   Recalled are days in the farmhouse spent,
   Beside the grand old wood.
   

   The farm is sold and the house pulled down;
   A mansion, stately, tall,
   Stands now in place of the farmhouse old;
   How changed, indeed, is all!
   And they who played in the garret there,
   Are scattered, far away;
   So busy they with the cares of life,
   They rarely meet, to-day.
   

   The fields are green and the skies are blue,
   The valley still is fair;
   The treasures heaped and the books are gone,
   There's none can tell me where.
   Long years have passed, and I look in vain
   For what I used to see,—
   When life was new, and the garret old
   Was all the world to me.
   

   And, glancing back o'er the days of youth,
   I drop a silent tear
   For the happy days, in the years gone by,
   Within that attic dear.
   For sweetest still are the times long past,
   The faces gone for aye;
   And Memory's treasures far outweigh
   All those we hold to-day.
   

3. The Attic of My Childhood

   by Edward J. Deneen

   
   

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   Oh, the wonders of that attic,
   How I loved to climb its stair
   Made of steps just like a ladder
   And a trap door waiting there!
   

   Through fan-shapen windows, streaming,
   Came the golden shafts of sun,
   Through the fairy curtains gleaming,
   That the tireless spiders spun.
   

   There, a distaff, wheel and treadle,
   Lay beneath the sloping roof,
   None there were who knew its uses—
   Gone, the maker of the woof.
   

   There, too, hung a war-time weapon—
   Grandpa's bayonet, so grim.
   He had whipped the Rebel army—
   General Grant a-helping him.
   

   Oh, the treasures of that attic
   Hanging from its rafters bare—
   Coats of velvet, silken dresses,
   Beaded bags, and wreaths of hair.
   

   Hats and bonnets, shoes and slippers,
   Used for masquerades a lot,
   Plant jars and unhandled dippers
   Underneath each leaky spot.
   

   Shawls and scarfs and knitted mittens,
   Colors of the Orient;
   Dolls and doylies, sawdust kittens,
   Oh, the money that was spent!
   

   Strings of buttons, by the thousands,
   Still no making of a pair;
   Margaret sought them from the neighbors
   When she wore beribboned hair.
   

   Dainty bits of china, broken,
   And a precious statue cracked,
   All within their tissue wrappings,
   Tied by loving hands—intact.
   

   Winter apples, there for keeping,
   Spread about upon the floor,
   Big pound-sweets and golden russets,
   But I never left a core.
   

   Piles of butternuts there drying
   Till their satin coats of green
   Turned a sombre brown, all shrunken,
   And the jagged shells were seen.
   

   Whalebone ribs from old umbrellas,
   And I smoked that acrid stuff,
   Till my stomach in rebellion
   Warned me—not another puff.
   

   Hoopskirts, with and without bustles,
   Linen dusters, carpet rags,
   Quilting frames and curtain stretchers,
   Magazines and traveling bags.
   

   Paper sacks of downy feathers
   Waiting there to fill a tick,
   Foot-stools and some other comforts
   Only used when folks were sick.
   

   And within a trunk so aged
   That its sides had turned to gray,
   Were the tear-stained precious treasures
   Of the ones who'd passed away—
   

   Stockings made for brother Tommy,
   Dresses that dear Nannie wore,
   Dainty bits of broidered muslin—
   Grandma's needle-work of yore.
   

   Ah! Each mortal has an attic
   Where he stores the broken past—
   Shattered hopes, and hours of gladness,
   Loves that cling until the last.
   

   Childhood plays within its shadow,
   Manhood lingers in its gloom,
   But Old Age lives midst the splendors,
   There, in Memory's Attic Room.
   

4. My Treasures

   by Tessa Sweazy Webb

   
   

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   Today I found within my dingy attic
   An iron-bound chest, musty and very old,
   I raised the lid with eager, trembling fingers,
   And found these treasures dearer far than gold.
   

   A blurred and faded tintype of my mother,
   A sampler showed the deftness of her hand;
   And many bits of art she made and treasured,
   With hopes that only mothers understand.
   

   There was a picture of an ancient school house
   With all the scholars standing in a row,
   And in the very centre was the teacher—
   Which took me back to school days, long ago.
   

   And there within a little ebon casket,
   Yellowed with age and wrapped with deep regard,
   A little gilt-edged card, script of Old English,
   An invitation—my own wedding card.
   

   Some little garments very sheer and lacy
   With bits of narrow ribbon, pink and blue,
   A little ring with this inscription, "Baby,"
   Were wrapped together . . . with one small worn shoe.
   

   Today I found within my dingy attic
   An iron-bound chest, musty and very old,
   I raised the lid with eager, trembling fingers
   And found these treasures dearer farm than gold.
   

5. The Old Chests in the Garret

   by Anonymous

   
   

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   Up in the garret one rainy day,
   Where the rafters were hung with the cobwebs gray,
   Where the dust lay thick on chest and board,
   Where the wind up great wide chimneys roared,
   I came to think awhile.
   

   Round about the room in a row,
   Were chests of treasures of long ago:
   Quaint old fans of sandal-wood,
   Silks that alone in their glory stood,
   On some day long passed by.
   

   India muslins fine and old,
   Costly lace as yellow as gold,
   Satin with its silvery sheen,
   Strings of pearls fit for a queen,
   Carefully stored away.
   

   Into my fancy a picture came,
   Of royal knight, of stately dame,
   Of laughing eyes, of glossy curls
   Fastened back with these strings of pearls,
   Some by-gone Christmas eve.
   

   I closed the chest-lid with a sigh,
   And hung the key on a rafter nigh,
   For many a Christmas eve had gone,
   Passed had many a Christmas morn,
   While they slept under the snow.
   

   Resting there, for their work was done,
   Of deeds, of words, and honor won;
   Those in memory will stay,
   Though lord and lady have passed away,
   And treasures fall to dust.
   

   I opened another chest to find
   Packs of letters with ribbons twined,
   Some of the ribbons were bright and gay,
   Others were black and seemed to say,
   Sad news was with them bound.
   

   One letter writ in a manly hand,
   Came over the sea from a foreign land,
   Telling when the ship should sail;
   But the vessel sank in a fearful gale
   And the sailor came no more.
   

   I started, for the tears fell fast
   O'er this reminder of the past,
   But softly speaking in my ear
   An angel's voice I seemed to hear,
   And this it said to me:
   

   "Weep not for a past which is over and gone,
   The friends whose memory you mourn
   Safe through the storms of life's rough sea
   By the dear Christ's side are awaiting thee,
   Soon shalt thou meet them there."
   

   The dusky garret with peace was filled,
   The pattering rain on the roof was stilled,
   The sunbeams flickering through the room,
   Came like light from my Father's home,
   Or a smile from loved ones gone.
   

6. The Old Sampler

   For love is of the immortal,
   And patience is sublime,
   And trouble a thing of every day,
   And touching every time;
   

   - M. E. Sangster
   The Old Sampler

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   by M. E. Sangster

   
   

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   Out of the way, in a corner
   Of our dear old attic room,
   Where bunches of herbs from the hillside
   Shake ever a faint perfume,
   An oaken chest is standing,
   With hasp and padlock and key,
   Strong as the hands that made it
   On the other side of the sea.
   

   When the winter days are dreary,
   And we're out of heart with life,
   Of its crowding cares aweary,
   And sick of its restless strife,
   We take a lesson in patience
   From the attic corner dim,
   Where the chest still holds its treasures,
   A warder faithful and grim.
   

   Robes of an antique fashion,
   Linen and lace and silk,
   That time has tinted with saffron,
   Though once they were white as milk;
   Wonderful baby garments,
   'Boidered with loving care
   By fingers that felt the pleasure,
   As they wrought the ruffles fair;
   

   A sword, with the red rust on it,
   That flashed in the battle tide,
   When from Lexington to Yorktown
   Sorely men's souls were tried;
   A plumed chapeau and a buckle,
   And many a relic fine,
   And, an by itself, the sampler,
   Framed in with berry and vine.
   

   Faded the square of canvas,
   And dim is the silken thread,
   But I think of white hands dimpled,
   And a childish, sunny head;
   For here in cross and in tent stitch,
   In a wreath of berry and vine,
   She worked it a hundred years ago,
   "Elizabeth, Aged Nine."
   

   In and out in the sunshine,
   The little needle flashed,
   And in and out on the rainy day,
   When the merry drops down plashed,
   As close she sat by her mother,
   The little Puritan maid,
   And did her piece in the sampler,
   While the other children played.
   

   You are safe in the beautiful heaven,
   "Elizabeth, aged nine;"
   But before you went you had troubles
   Sharper than any of mine.
   Oh, the gold hair turned with sorrow
   White as the drifted snow.
   And your tears dropped here where I'm standing,
   On this very plumed chapeau.
   

   When you put it away, its wearer
   Would need it nevermore,
   By a sword thrust learning the secrets
   God keeps on yonder shore;
   And you wore your grief like glory,
   You would not yield supine,
   Who wrought in your patient childhood,
   "Elizabeth, Aged Nine."
   

   Out of the way, in a corner,
   With hasp and padlock and key,
   Stands the oaken chest of my fathers
   That came from over the sea;
   And the hillside herbs above it
   Shake odors fragrant and fine,
   And here on its lid is a garland
   To "Elizabeth, aged nine."
   

   For love is of the immortal,
   And patience is sublime,
   And trouble a thing of every day,
   And touching every time;
   And childhood sweet and sunny,
   And womanly truth and grace,
   Ever call light life's darkness
   And bless earth's lowliest place.
   

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