OF tiptoeing through our parlor-room Of late I often dream; I see the waxwork flowers a-bloom, The hanging lamp agleam; The whatnot still uplifts its head In polished self-esteem. The table with the top a-hinge Is next the closet door; The mats upon the zinc impinge And cover half the floor; I notice where the carpet shows, It scarcely hasn't wore. The stove, with burnished tube above And moulded box below, With maple chunks is still in love, As in the long-ago; I hear the roaring up the flue, I see the hearth aglow. The haircloth chairs and sofa still Are where they used to stand; The picture of an English rill, With sheep on either hand, Is hanging near the highboy there A-jest as grandma planned. I move a motto frame to see A-how the paper wears; It hasn't faded—seems to me, Except the pinkish squares; The ceiling still is white enough A-so the whitewash stares. And here is where the preacher stood Upon that dismal day, Of widowhood and orphanhood And teams in long array; His mournful voice dissolves the dream— I tiptoe fast away. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ADMETUS; TO MY FRIEND RALPH WALDO EMERSON by EMMA LAZARUS A GIRL'S THOUGHTS by ISAAC ROSENBERG TO COLE, THE PAINTER, DEPARTING FOR EUROPE by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE ARAB by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY SONNET: 9 by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY |