This is an empty house; not a stick of furniture left, not even a newspaper sodden with rain under a broken window; nothing to tell us the style of the people who lived here, but that they took it along. But wait: here, penciled in inches up a doorframe, these little marks mark the growth of a child impatient to get on with it, a child stretching his neck in a hurry to leave nothing here but an absence grown tall in a doorway. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MY LOVE by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL HUGH SELWYN MAUBERLEY: 7. 'SIENA MI FE' by EZRA POUND SONNET ON CATHERINE WORDSWORTH by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH HA! HA! HO! HO! by BERTON BRALEY THE TWO GRAVES by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT WE GO ON by NELLIE MANLEY BUCK OF MUSIC by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |