The Old Daguerreotypes
Up in the attic I found them, locked in the cedar chest, Where the flowered gowns lie folded, which once were brave as the best; And like the queer old jackets and the waistcoats gay with stripes, They tell of a worn-out fashion—these old daguerreotypes. Quaint little folding cases fastened with tiny hook, Seemingly made to tempt one to lift up the latch and look; Linings of purple velvet, odd little frames of gold, Circling the faded faces brought from the days of old.
Grandpa and grandma, taken ever so long ago,
Grandma’s bonnet a marvel, grandpa’s collar a show,
Mother, a tiny toddler, with rings on her baby hands
Painted—lest none should notice—in glittering, gilded bands.
Aunts and uncles and cousins, a starchy and stiff array, Lovers and brides, then blooming,—now so wrinkled and gray: Out through the misty glasses they gaze at me, sitting here Opening the quaint old cases with a smile that is half a tear.
I will smile no more, little pictures, for heartless it was, in truth, To drag to the cruel daylight these ghosts of a vanished youth; Go back to your cedar chamber, your gowns and your lavender, And dream, ’mid their bygone graces, of the wonderful days that were.