OAKEN
SMIALS
There
is a place that I can go
When
I am sad and feeling low.
It
is not far; it's close as thought;
It
is a dream that I have caught.
It
is a place called Oaken Smials.
I
go to visit it a while
When
I feel blue. I close my eyes,
I
muse a bit, and there it lies.
It
stands upon a lawn with trees
That
shade, and dance with every breeze.
Its
frame is oak, and granite stones
Support
that frame like sturdy bones.
It
has tower and tunnel, hall and stair,
And
stained glass twinkles here and there.
Brass
gleams on doors and window frames;
A
hearthstone wards the chimney flames.
Blue
china, in the kitchen, glows,
By
pewter mugs ranged row on row.
The
larder's full of food and drink
Of
all the good kind one could think.
There
are comfy chairs and shelves of books
And
window seats in hidden nooks;
Grandfather
clocks chiming hours keep;
There,
soft white beds that nurture sleep.
There
are hidden cellars and attic rooms;
There
are sunny spots and shady glooms.
The
house is snug, yet somehow spacious,
Its
plan is cozy, but capacious.
But
always I must leave that place
And
present life and troubles face,
Though
I return with heart renewed,
And
I know the dream is far from through.
For
dreams have come true before now.
And
once again I make my vow:
That
Oaken Smials shall one day be,
And
there we'll dwell, most joyously.
Notes
I've had a vision of a perfect house for many years, starting perhaps with reading the poem The Shiny Little House(by Nancy M. Hayes?) in Fourth Grade, deepened with descriptions of Badger's House in The Wind in the Willows, Merlin's Cottage in The Sword in the Stone, and of course Bag End in The Hobbit (odd, that; I think I read all of those in the same year; definitely in middle school). Even now I try to make the Guest House as close an approximation of Oaken Smials as I can; it is like a pale,gleaming shadow of that Platonic ideal. I wrote this poem ... oh, years ago now, probably as far back as the Eighties.
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