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An Old House

The long, narrow road from the highway
Stretched to the top of the knoll,
Where, sat an old house, long useless, 
For time had taken it's toll.

The shutters had long since fallen, 
As well as the window panes.
The doors were asag on the hinges
And the shingles could ne'er stop the rains.

No laughter could be heard coming from it;
No life could be found inside.
No hint of it's former usefulness;
It's living and loving had died.

What tales could it have told me?
What words could it have said?
What beauty could it have showed me?
But, alas, the old house was dead.

Someday this old house shall lie in a casket
At the end of my long, narrow road,
And my body shall be as the house was,
When I've left this earthly abode.

Someday it will be old and useless,
When no life can be found inside;
No laughter, no loving or usefulness,
When it's living and loving has died.
By L. B. Strawn
February 25, 1984