Oh Little House of Pleasant Dreams, The dreams are fled And you are but four empty walls Whose soul is dead. The garden that was magic soil Is common loam, And there is nothing but a house Which was a Home. Still through your windows shines the sun And breathes the air, The quaint old rugs and furniture Unchanged, are there; Yet they seem bathed in ghostly light Chill, pale and wan, For there's no warmth in any house Whose dreams are gone. Love touched you with its rosy glow By night and day But love with clipped and wounded wings Has limped away, And leaves a shelter—nothing more— Of wood and stone. A Little House of Pleasant Dreams Whose dreams are flown. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FAIRIES' SONG by THOMAS RANDOLPH NUPTIAL ODE ON THE MARRIAGE OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF WALES by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN LILIES: 23. FINALLY ALONE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) THE CRITIC by S. F. BATCHELDER TO MY WIFE by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |