Lately I have been involved in a project of scanning old letters from my parents’ attic and other storage places, to add to our family history knowledge. These concern my father’s family, and I have been able to find all kinds of bits and pieces of information about my great-grandparents, great aunts and uncles and grandparents.
The house my parents live in was built by my grandfather years ago, and many other old family things are in the attic and other parts of the house. My dad has recently become interested in divesting himself of some of the old books and ephemera he and his father collected and saved over the years, and I have been pondering on the best way to do that. I’ve come up with several ideas, but in the process I have been reminded of a poem I love dearly.
Somewhere in all those boxes in the garage (yes, it’s hereditary) I have a typed copy of a poem called “I Love Old Things.” All I can ever remember of it on my own is “I love old things, cracked, broken, torn things.” It’s a beautiful poem and, if you’re a person interested in old things, gives a wonderful feeling when read. Since I didn’t feel up to braving the garage quite yet, I went looking for the poem online. I think it must be fading out of the general consciousness, which would be a real shame, because I only found a few sites with even a mention of it.
When I found it, the poem was everything I remembered. The poet talks of “streets of old cities crowded with ghosts” and “old books frayed from the searching of truth-hungry fingers.” Isn’t that great? And “the old sun, the old moon, the old earth’s face.” If any of these phrases sound like home to you, here’s a link to the poem (nicely illustrated with a garden theme) so you can read the whole thing for yourself:
The poet’s name is Wilson MacDonald. I found some biographical information on him here.
My mission now is to find a copy of a book containing the poem so I don’t have to hunt elsewhere every time I want to read it!