EVERY house with its garret, Lumbered with rubbish and relics, -- Spinning-wheels leaning in corners, Chests under spider-webbed rafters, Brittle and yellow old letters, Grandfather's things and grandmother's. There overhead, at the midnight, Noises of creaking and stepping Startle the hush of the chambers -- Ghosts on their tiptoes repassing. Every house with its garden; Some little plot -- a half-acre, Or a mere strip by the windows, Flower-beds and narrow box-borders, Something spicily fragrant, Something azure and golden. There the small feet of the sparrow Star the fresh mould round the roses; And, in the shadowy moonlight, Wonderful secrets are whispered. Every heart with its garret, Cumbered with relics and rubbish -- Wheels that are silent forever, Leaves that are faded and broken, Foolish old wishes and fancies, Cobwebs of doubt and suspicion -- Useless, unbeautiful, growing Year by year thicker and faster: Naught but a fire or a moving Ever can clear it, or clean it. Every heart with its garden; Some little corner kept sacred, Fragrant and pleasant with blossoms; There the forget-me-nots cluster, And pure love-violets, hidden, Guessed but by sweetness all round them; Some little strip in the sunshine, Cheery and warm, for above it Rest the deep, beautiful heavens, Blue, and beyond, and forever. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: COLUMBUS CHENEY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS A CELEBRATION by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS BEFORE THE RAIN by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE VOICE OF THE GRASS by SARAH ROBERTS BOYLE LITANY by ROBERT GRANT (1785-1838) A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 28. THE WELSH MARCHES by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN |