OUR HIDEAWAY Steps down from the busy street I know a quaint and sequestered place Where the black laths caress white walls And arched doorways are low and deep set; Where pewter tankards have retired to high shelves And old books are resting nearby Where coach lamps glow And dried flowers hang their pretty heads; Old pots and pans sit by the fire While a sewing machine backstitches on the past; In this room of memories We talk of old times and old ways And when the music flows On flagstone floor we tap our toes. -- Maura O'GRADY