A Victorian Attic, Page 1 Of 2 Poem by John Bliven Morin

We loved playing in the attic,
My Sister Sue and me;
It was our childhood pastime
When the rain came down, you see.

Books and picture albums
Full of strangers looking stern;
Some children too, with faces grim
As though the camera burned.

An ancient stereopticon
With views, which in the light,
Looked eerily realistic,
Though only black and white.

A rocking horse with faded paint,
A model ship with sails,
A coach-and-four in miniature,
A wind-up train with rails.

Trunks full of antique clothing
To wear and put on plays,
And laugh before the mirror
To see ourselves that way.

A bonnet for my Sister Sue,
A tall old hat for me,
That fell down past my little ears
And then I could not see.

Walking sticks and brass-head canes,
Umbrellas and parasols,
Filled an actual elephant’s foot
Perhaps from the Taj Mahal.

Tin soldiers in a wooden box,
In a corner, on the floor
Just waiting for the call to rise
And fight again once more.

A porcelain doll in a velvet gown,
Among others in dusty dresses,
Seemed happy at my sister’s touch
As she brushed her fading tresses.

We’d play for endless hours there
Till the supper bell would peal
And Mother called us down to wash
Before the evening meal.