Short Stories

 I think the exiles among you will forgive me my self-indulgence just one more poem.

I remember, I remember
The house where I was born
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon
Nor brought too long a day
But now, i often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.

I remember, i remember
The roses, red and white The                                                                          violets and the lily-cups
Those flowers made of light;
The lilacs where the robin built
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday –
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember
The fir trees dark and high
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky!
It was a childhood ignorance
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.

Local poet Art Bennett lived from 1793 until 1879.  This is not one of his better efforts, but still I think it has some appeal.  It’s a tribute, I suppose, to his dinner just before he eats it!
There you lie,
You poor little fry,
Your eyes wide open
Yet you cannot cry
Your back all burnt
And your belly all tore
And not a bit of butter
To grease your sore!