Show THE OLD GARRET I Eben E Rexford in Boston Evening Transcript Swing ajar the garret door How the rusty hinges creak Pause before you venture oer r he old threshold worn and weak Comes as oft such questions will Who knows whats beyond the sU Here all things are plainto see I There all things are mystery Where old treasures are shut fast I In the storehouse of the past I From the rafters overhead I Withered herbs in dusty rows I Hag like branches sere and dead I But wheneer a soft wind blows II Through the windows broken pane Faint sweet fragrance again From their leaves are shaken free As an oldtime memory I In the cobwebbed minds of men Stirs and tries to live again Here the spiders web Is spun In the dust and in the gloom i Here are woven one by one In a viewless noiseless loom I Fabrics fit for fairy wear Frail as frost and quite as far I Showing patterns rarer far Than those of old laces are l I When a light from heavens blue I Shines the silken meshes through I In that shadowy corner stands An old cradle and it seems Slowly rocked by phantom hands While a baby sleeps and dreams I I On the pillow long unpressed And a lullaby of rest Trembles softly through the gloom I Of this memoryhaunted room I From the lips that long ago I Turned to dust where graveflowers j grow I In that old worm aten chest What quaint things are stored away Stomached and broadered vest Satin gown and wig of gray I I can fancy phantom folk Dancingat the midnights stroke In the garments hidden here I For who knows how many a year Twere an eerie sight to see i Their grim ghostly revelry Almost hidden from the sght By the wreckage of the past In the dim and dusty light From the cobwebbed window cast I Shows a mirror and therein Many a ghost of what has been I Seems to rise and swiftly pass Like a shadow oer the glass I In the depths of i I see i i Things that almost frighten me Faces mouldered into dust Long ago look out at me From the tarnished frame whose rust 1 Mocks it human vanity i As n shadow forms for they Form and fade and pass away I I Like the ripple on a stream i Or the fancy of a dream I Here then lost in shadows vast 1 The procession of the past Longer here I dare not stay For it somehow seems to me We are trespassers today Shut the door and turn the key Leave it to the dead who quit I I Their old graves to visit it Whence they come or where they go I What they come forwho shall know 1 shall solve the mystery When the grass grows over me |