Damp winds in moldy forest blow

Through melancholy pines

Who ever whisper tales of old

And long-forgotten times

Of days gone by long years ago

When people dwelt within

An old house falling to decay

As do most dreams of men

Of crumbling walls once cheerful white

Now darkened mossy green

As smilax claims the last few boards

Of corn crib to be seen

Of children born in rooms of mirth

Whose walls would watch them grow

And footfalls upon wooden floors

Of feet they came to know.

Those same old oaken floors received

The salty drops of tears

Shed at sad departures as

Those lives came full of years.

The door yet hangs but stands ajar

No longer passed by man

Dim portal to a doleful world

Of memories where it stands

Forever trapped within this grove

Of hawthorn ‘neath the pines

Who ever whisper tales of old

And long-forgotten times.