Antiques are the haunts of yesteryear.
The solid walnut narrow chest of drawers
contained the treasures of Victorian time:
ginger lily needlepoint spoke
of painstaking measures;
a velvet autograph book,
enamelled with its signatures
of well-wishers and sweethearts, rose
and fell with the swoons of youth.
There lay a pile of faded photographs,
children without smiles,
spinster women in black, and men with top hats.
In velvet, a set of vintage silver teaspoons
and sugar tongs tarnished with neglect,
an antique fan aged, embossed with memories
and pewter swirls; a pocket watch,precisely stopped at half-past nine.