The little house has grown too small, or rather we have grown <br />Too big to dwell within the walls where all our joys were known. <br />And so, obedient to the wish of her we love so well, <br />I have agreed for sordid gold the little home to sell. <br />Now strangers come to see the place, and secretly I sigh, <br />And deep within my breast I hope that they'll refuse to buy. <br /> <br />'This bedroom's small,' one woman said; up went her nose in scorn! <br />To me that is the splendid room where little Bud was born. <br />'The walls are sadly finger-marked,' another stranger said. <br />A lump came rising in my throat; I felt my cheeks grow red. <br />'Yes, yes,' I answered, 'so they are. The fingermarks are free <br />But I'd not leave them here if I could take them all with me.' <br /> <br />'The stairway shows the signs of wear.' I answered her in heat, <br />'That's but the glorious sign to me of happy little feet. <br />Most anyone can have a flight of shiny stairs and new <br />But those are steps where joy has raced, and love and laughter, too.' <br />'This paper's ruined! Here are scrawled some pencil marks, I note.' <br />I'd treasured them for years. They were the first he ever wrote. <br /> <br />Oh I suppose we'll sell the place; it's right that we should go; <br />The children must have larger rooms in which to live and grow. <br />But all my joys were cradled here; 'tis here I've lived my best, <br />'Tis here, whatever else shall come, we've been our happiest; <br />And though into a stranger's hands this home I shall resign, <br />And take his gold in pay for it, I still shall call it mine.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/selling-the-old-home/
