UNDER the shade of the poplars still,

NO Lilacs and locusts in clumps between,

Roses over the window sill,

Is the dear old house with its door of green.


Never were seen such spotless floors,

Never such shining rows of tin,

While the rose-leaf odors that came through the doors

Told of the peaceful life within.


Here is the room where the children slept,

Grandmother's children, tired with play,

And the famous drawer where the cakes were kept,

Shrewsbury cookies and caraway;


The garden walks where the children ran,

To smell the flowers and learn their names,

The children thought, since the world began,

Were never such garden-walks for games.


There were tulips and asters in regular lines,

Sweat Williams and marigolds on their stalks,

Bachelor's buttons and sweet-pea vines,

And box that bordered the narrow walks.


Pure white lilies stood corner-wise,

From sunflowers yellow and poppies red,

And the summer pinks looked up in surprise,

At the kingly holyhocks overhead.


Morning-glories and larkspur stood

Close to the neighborly daffodil;

Cabbage roses and southernwood

Roamed through the beds, at their own sweet will.


Many a year has passed since then,

Grandmother's house is empty and still,

Grandmother's babies have grown to men,

And the roses grow wild o'er the windowsill.


Never again shall the children meet

Under the poplars gray and tall,

Never again shall the careless feet

Dance through the rose-leaf-scented hall.


Grandmother's welcome is heard no more,

And the children are scattered far and wide,

And the world is a larger place than of yore,

But hallowed memories still abide.


And the children are better men today

For the cakes and rose-leaves and garden walks,

And grandmother's welcome so far away,

And the old sweet williams on their stalks.





Arthur Wentworth Eaton.