The elegant verandahs still remain, Though empty now, they warrant our respect. They don't let on, but I can sense their pain; They dream of summers gone and recollect: The squeaky wicker chairs and fireflies; The after-dinner cake and lemonade. The conversations that would fall and rise In rhythm with the silence darkness laid. The winter windows that replaced the screens; The Christmas tree that winked for twenty days. (And I remember teen-age party scenes Way back when ukuleles were the craze). The air-conditioners must bear the blame For leaving the verandahs all alone. Summer now can never be the same, Especially in the matter of its tonem .