This is her room; this is her narrow bed Whereon each night her golden hair is spread. This is her glass wherein each morn she looks; These are her pictures; these are all her books. These are her trinkets, trophies girlish, gay; These are the toys she touches every day. This is her desk whereat she sits to write Letters that make the day that brings them bright. These are her fish that swim in water clear; This is her winged Love she most holds dear. This is her rug her eager feet have pressed; This is her chair wherein she sinks to rest When wearied with some simple task or pleasure. This is her clock whose hands her young hours measure; These are her walls that hold her heart at home. These are her windows, tempting her to roam. This is, in fine, her world; no world more wide, Since all her dreams start here or here abide. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PRESIDENT GARFIELD by GEORGE SANTAYANA CHRISTMAS AT SEA by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 13 by ALFRED TENNYSON HOOKER'S ACROSS by GEORGE HENRY BOKER THE MYSTERIOUS GUEST by FOWLER BRADNACK A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 27 by THOMAS CAMPION TO THE KING, AT HIS ENTRANCE INTO SAXHAM, BY MASTER JOHN CROFTS by THOMAS CAREW |