Explore "The Little Old House by the Shore" by Joseph C. Lincoln on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It stands at the bend where the road has its end, / And the blackberries nod on the vine; / And the sun flickers down to its gables of brown, / Through the sweet-scented boughs of the pine. / The roof-tree is racked and the windows are cracked, / And the grasses grow high at the door, / But hid in my heart is an altar, apart, / To the little old house by the shore.
For its portal so bare was a Paradise rare, / With the blossoms that clustered above, / When a mother's dear face gave a charm to the place / As she sang at her labor of love. / And the breeze, as it strays through the window and plays / With the dust and the leaves on the floor, / Is a memory sweet of the pattering feet / In the little old house by the shore.