Children's Home Poem by Howard Long

A tearing air fills the room
the halls are swept with leaves.
The door awaits its final doom,
it fears its love-filled eaves.
It fears it may ne'er open again
iron will bar the oak.
The master is now broken
the clock has sung it's stroke.

The house was once a theater
and plays were nightly made,
of knightly men on horses
of the fairest maid.
Laughter ruled the halls
and trembled through the boards.
But now the halls are barren
only songs of oaken boards
now fill the time forlorn.