Do you
remember our house, my sweet?
The house
where we lived on Sundle Street?
The little
Dutch numbers above the door,
And the
moonlight in pools upon the floor?
Do
you remember the dripping eaves
When it
rained at night? And the cracking leaves. . .
that
crunched and rustled beneath our feet –
when
October came to Sundle Street?
And
the lamp-post, dear, do you think it still
Might
be there? I hope it always will.
I liked its
glow, the score upon score
Of shadows
it threw across our door.
Do you
remember the living room?
And the
plant we bought that would never bloom
The room
where we felt secure and snug. . .
With a
puppy curled up on the rug?
Do
you remember the quaint old dishes?
And all the
first stars. . . and all the wishes?
The quiet
snow on a winter night. . .
And the
fire we poked, and the candlelight?
Do
you remember our house, my sweet?
Our little
brown house on Sundle Street?
Two other
people have moved there now
Two other
people who made a vow. . .
But
they will wake in a rain filled night. . .
And listen.
. . and wait. . . and be filled with
Fright. . .
they will hear our talk, and our
Foolish
laughter, and complain of ghosts
Forever
after. . .
-Betty
Jane Balch
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