MY little House is very young: No shadow makes it grave. With blue-bird-chintz and roses hung Its chamber windows wave. Here never blind-eyed Grief has knocked And entered groping in. The doors, that seem so free, are locked As yet to Death and Sin. Here only happy wondering dreams Walk nightly to and fro. They are the friends of white moon-beams, And simple as the snow. My little House is very young And very unaware That dreams are wrought and songs are sung In any subtler air. Oh might I keep its blue-birds bright, Its hearth still warm and gay! Oh might my House but know delight, And not be dark, some day! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HUMAN ABSTRACT, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE OF A BAD SINGER; EPIGRAM by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE SPRING OF THE YEAR by ALLAN CUNNINGHAM ONE LIFE by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR ON PLAYWRIGHT (1) by BEN JONSON INTO THE TWILIGHT by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |