In the Workhouse 1888
The walls are cold, the floors are bare
The air is thick with heavy care
We stand in line, no words to say
Yet in your eyes, I find my way
The days are long, the nights are thin
But when you touch my hand, I grin
A stolen warmth, a silent fire
That keeps alive our small desire
One day we’ll get jobs, work, and be free
And you’ll say, “Doris, marry me”
No more workhouse hunger or pain
We buy a house on the little lane
No velvet gowns, no candlelight
Just whispered hope in fading night
Among the sorrow, pain, and strain
Your love is where my life begins
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (2)
This is beautiful, Marie! I love the subject matter and the cover photo! It's a pleasant surprise to see 'nostalgic' poetry. I've not read anything like this set in the past. ⚡💙 Bill⚡
Oh what a lovely poem, I read it and 'hoped' that it was real back then, Thankyou for sharing xx