Thursday, May 16, 2013


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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