My Past Old Days Poem by ritu gangele

be it a weakness, it deserves some praise
we love the play-place of our early days,
the scene is touching and the heart is stone
that feels not at the sight, and feels at none;
the wall on which we tried our graving skill,
the very name we carved subsisting still,
the bench on which we sat deep-employed,
though mangled, hacked, hewed not yet destroyed.
the little ones, unbottoned, glowing hot,
playing our games and on the very spot;
the pleasing spectacle at once excites
such recollection of our own delights,
that viewing it, we seem almost to obtain
our innocent sweet simple years again.