Memory's Mansion by Ella Wheeler Wilcox — Read

In Memory's Mansion are wonderful rooms, / And I wander about them at will; / And I pause at the casements, where boxes of blooms / Are sending sweet scents o'er the sill. / I lean from a window that looks on a lawn: / From a turret that looks on the wave. / But I draw down the shade, when I see on some glade, / A stone standing guard, by a grave.

To Memory's attic I clambered one day, / When the roof was resounding with rain. / And there, among relics long hidden away, / I rummaged with heart-ache and pain. / A hope long surrendered and covered with dust, / A pastime, out-grown, and forgot, / And a fragment of love, all corroded with rust, / Were lying heaped up in one spot.