Down a narrow winding lane, there suddenly appears
A little house, an olden house, gray and spent with years.
Once you've seen the lonely spot, your thoughts cannot depart,
Because the silence reigning there, lingers in your heart.

Greenest fields, forgotten lie, untouched by knowing hand;
Those loving hands and hearts now gone -- none to understand.
Save for the low, soft chirping of a friendly little bird,
There is naught to break the silence -- no other sound is heard.

What a strange enchantment seems to linger ev'rywhere,
While through trees and grasses, moves a vision, soft and fair.
Up the hill ascending, lightly through the mist she glides,
With her eyes fixed on the old house, where she still resides.

To the old house, as to heaven, o'er the shady lawn,
Drifts the dear old soul so sweetly, at the break of dawn.
To the east-view window walking, to her old armchair,
She gently whispers to a loved one, sitting near her there,
"Nowhere else in all the world, shines the sun so fair.
"Shines the sun so fair, my dear, shines the sun so fair."



By
EDITH SANBORN COBBLE
From her book, Drifting Sands

New Voices Publishing Company
New York: 1952

The poem posted tonight is one from my Grandmother, Edith Sanborn Cobble, written around 1952. I think she was remembering her dear mother, my Great Grandmother who had died. I imagine she was relating a comforting thought of her mother returning to sit in her armchair by the home fire on the old homestead farm in Northern New York.

I have a legacy of poetry in my family. Both of my parents had Mothers who wrote. Whenever I feel stuck in my writing, I read one of theirs. Once in a while I feel that their voices should be heard, even though they are no longer here.