It is so quaint, children have been born, grown, married, birthed, and died, and through all those years, a little poem book survived.
There are signatures inside dating from 1926, and little scribbles of children when they were young, whom are now old, if they have not past.
The stormy March is come at last,
With wind and cloud and changing skies;
I hear the rushing of the blast,
That through the snowy valley flies.
-A Verse of 'March', Bryant's
The groves were God's first temples.
Ere man learned to hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them-ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,
Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down,
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks and supplication.
-A piece of 'A Forest Hymn', Bryant's
Old sorrows are forgotten now,
Or but remembered to make sweet the hour
That overpays them; wounded hearts that bled
Or broke are healed forever. In the room
Of this grief-shadowed present, there shall be
A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw
The heart, and never shall a tender tie
Be broken; in whose reign the eternal change
That waits on growth and action shall proceed
With everlasting Concord hand in hand.
-A piece of 'The Flood of Years', Bryant's