Come away with me children, A hundred years we return, To a gilded age of long ago, Where carpets lay like tapestry Rich in woven lore, beneath Stolen moments of importance, Joy and sorrow, eternal as dreams, no more. When pretty women, Faithful to vanity Wore corsets, cinching at their seams And posed in rigid stance, Held fast each thin breath Discreetly beyond black veils, Wept. Where covered clocks hid time, That ceased too soon, For loved ones, Laid out to view In gas lit parlors, dimmed By death and flickering hope, Amongst elegant appointments Our painted lady wore, In velvet drapes cascading To puddle on the floor. Behind smoky tea stained hues, Of filmy georgette lace; This young bride in her sweeping gown; A crystal vision, poised in blissful grace Where sterling hatpins, bauble and filigree Pierced braided tendrils, Through brushed felt and veiled organza, In crystal studded coiffure, That married the glinting light, Nestled as one in golden tresses, Of Victorian delight. Here inside; Brass bound, and latched Victorian velvet, gathered, In fading hues of sepia Remembrances; Long since forgotten, Six generations, Of feather-capped soul mates, Steeped in dignity, and refinement, Mellowed with time. Once held, in the arms of each foremother, Now captured, heir-loomed in its folds Though stilled- Live with us once more. They are forgotten; This reunion of unfamiliar faces, United between paperboard pages, Spattered in roses, yellowed with time. Who were they? You ask… These sweet-faced children: Bearing blooms, Kitten soft buds on slender stems. Pretty ankles drip creamy lace, Delicate hands, Hold demure silk fans- Handle to lips, That once, begged a kiss, In testimony to that quaint era, Of graciousness. Scarcely known Kindred, Though priceless, cherished As you are to me, Grown, lived and died Lost to time, Now remnants of memories Preserved, yet striving To give their loveliness a name. These softly, tinted cherubs, With gentle poise and pride Watched sunny days grow gray, Yet smiling still, unchanged. And here below one blissful gaze; Upon this well worn page, Penned thoughts, in rosy ink, Retain a subtle scent, As sweet, as each scribed sentiment. So faint; so fine, This elegant script; In poems and prose endure, Beyond the reach of greedy death, To speak again, once more. O children! Pages turn too swiftly, These years they fly right by, In stolen moments, frozen Fading summers, drinking up the light Which bears us with it, into night. Reveal to us, oh keeper of faces, As we listen for what can never be spoken, From inside our Family’s old and weighty tomb, Yet some how hear their loving whispers, Echo through the room- “Dispatched or not at leisure, From darkness here and nothingness; To your ascending children’s hands, They will not remember you! No never can!” “Though morning and nights Will open and close upon you, While asleep in time obscured, Yellowing, crumbling but not yet silent, Your voices will be heard!” Some time perhaps, in a hundred years, Other hands will pause, On open pages, pondering distant faces, Hearing voices, whispered gently, Beyond aged poetry and prose. And sing too, our praises; How brilliant are the dead! How soon forgotten, save their beauty Shine on, here in the keeper of faces. Perhaps they too, lived long enough to know, That while the future comes And the present goes, Our lives are not in vein. What we see within these pages children, But is nothing- It is in you, where we remain.