Page 25 - Poetry-Country

Curious china, quaint and old,
Thirteen stars in the blue and gold,
Two gilt doves in a circle hold.

All alone there stands a plate,
On topmost shelf, without a mate,
Relic of an ancient date.

Oft have I turned from dainties spread,
Forget my slice of wheaten bread,
To con that pictured plate instead.

Its full-rigged ships of deepest blue,
The seas unruffled, sailing through,
Toward a distant landscape view.

Flying pennants at masthead each,
Ships that sail, but never reach
The blueish pebbles and the beach.

In its red case, standing tall,
Ticks the clock against the wall,
Its benediction on us all.

On braided mat in a cosy chair,
The glory of the house is there,
Time’s gathered now upon her hair.

The story of her life is told,
She’s drifting away in the mist and gold
Of a life beyond that never grows old.

Drifting away, and out of sight,
Into the glory of greater light,
Into a day that has no night.

And in all the world there never will be
A house, old-fashioned, like this for me,
‘Mong daisies and buttercups down by the sea.

—(from a Victorian Scrap Album)

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