The boards were worn on the old porch swing,
And the chain from which it hung,
Had rusted links and a certain squeak,
Whenever the swing was swung.
On a summer’s eve when chores were done,
And a soft wind whispered low,
You could hear the swing give out a squeak,
As it swing there to and fro.
You and I, sitting side by side,
Would recount the pleasant hours
Of visits from our children
Or working with garden and flowers.
The years have passed, and so have you.
I’m alone and far from young,
But at sunset I still hear at times,
The squeak of a swing as it swung.
By Ethel Jack Hamilton
