A little house with sloping floors
And ceiling dark with oaken beams
And wooden latches to the doors
A little house all full of dreams.
A twisting stairway ages old
A chimney place deep and wide
That when the winter's wind blows cold
You may creep close and sit inside.
A little house right on the street
Grown over with grass
Where you may hear the ring of feet
And singing voices of children pass.
My house my longing heart lays bare
Of memory intimate and rare
When I have a little weary grown
To my last sleep must go some day
In dreams my spirit will return
It could not bear to be away. By Edna Houlder, aged 94,
formerly of Bolton.
Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.
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