MEMORIES by Katherine Carey-Place 1878-1934


Up in an attic high, so high,

Far above the city roar,

A poet sat when the day was done,

           And pondered a question o’er and o’er.


His hair was long and most unkept,

           Bushy and thick, was the poet’s hair,

His pen lay idle beside his pad,

            His clothes were old and worn threadbare.


“I have written,” said he, of love and life,

           I have dwelt on nature for weary hours,

I have raved of bees and birds and sky,

Of trees and woodland and vine-covered bowers.


Up in an attic high, so high,

          The shadows lengthened at close of day,

But a lingering sunbeam strayed within,

          Right on the poet’s pad it lay.


It danced about like a thing aflame,

          It sparkled and glittered as though to thrill,

Then softly as thistledown it rose,

          And softly slipped past the window-sill.


Up in an attic high, so high,

          A poet sat in fading light,

He reached for his idle pen nearby,

          And wrote on the pad, “tonight, tonight.”


Then straightway a vision came to him,

          No more he felt alone, forlorn,

As in a dream far, far away,

          He saw the home where he was born..


He wrote of the vine-clad cottage there,

          The hollyhock beside the wall,

The mother-love, the babbling brook,

          The fern-decked rocks and waterfall.


The tiny window, where the sun,

          Each morn came peepin in,

The light was gone, the room was dark,

          But fame had come to him.


For a little sunbeam filled with joy,

          Brought memories of a sturdy bot,

Of mother-love and bygone friends,

          Of a vine-clad cottage and fern-decked glens.


And swiftly they came in a merry row,

          The joys of the days he used to know,

So he wrote of the flowers and waterfall,

          And a tiny sunbeam on the wall.


Katherine Carey-Place 1878-1934

April 26, 192

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