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Follow story. Claim this Obituary Become the owner of this obituary to manage the guestbook, edit the notice, and more. Robert Ireland Facebook Twitter. Text size A A A. Beloved husband of Joyce.

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Pa to Ethen, Ollie, Noelle and soon-to-be Charlotte. Brother of Donna Ed and George Muriel.

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  • Robert Ireland | Obituary | Sarnia Observer!
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  • The family will greet friends at the Royal Canadian Legion, Br. Front St. Dedication service Sunday, September 20th, at p. Obituary published in. Trees was first published in August in Poetry Magazine , and then became the title poem in his second collection in , Trees and Other Poems. His poetry exhibits humility and a deep respect for God and nature.

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    I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.

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    Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.

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    I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it. I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do; For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two. This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.

    It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied; But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside. If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.

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    Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door, Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store. But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone For the lack of something within it that it has never known. But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life, That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet, Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet. So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart, For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.