Rusted, lightless, and cobwebbed.

Tho’ kept, not thrown, for old time’s sake,

all need of it has long since ebbed.

What use is it? It cannot shine—-

Its wick is black, sunk down, and dead.

It might still take some kerosene,

but there’s no chickens to be fed.

Or eggs? They’re long since gathered, every one.

And the henhouse, gone, where girlhood crept

shivering, in boots and coats,

or in the summertime, bare-foot,

clutching a pan while sprinkling out oats.

This lantern was so needed then,

as they trooped to milk the cows.

Oh! That last milking ran sometimes late

“cuz of long meetin’s Pastor allows!”

Against all biting cold, or dreary dark

this lantern shone, their only light—-

And cheered their flagging, tired hearts

as they did chores, unafraid, though night.

Old Friend, you went along with them

till all were grown,

till they flew off to start nests of their own.

Youthful hands, replaced by Mama’s,

or Papa’s, brown and wrinkled,

and your paint wore off-—was it black? Green?

For sure, dusty and dulled!

You’ve gone the way of man and all things Material,

Yet Memory’s aglow now, casting promise round you,

more than warmth of fond recall.

Old thing, useless, with no value of your own, harken!

Shofars sound! In Zion’s courts, no mere lantern but a Star Royale blazes

before the Lion of Judah’s throne!-—

oh, not far! Not very far!