I think when I look across the street At that strange old gabled house, How relieved it feels now they've all emerged And left it to itself. The rugs sprawl, oh, so comfortably And sleepily stretch themselves; No brushes beat, no brooms go swaying, No tramping feet go scurrying. The poor old lounge can settle down Without its weekly pounding. The cushions, too, have a chance to breathe, And the halls have stopped resounding. Houses, they say, to some look sad When humans are forced to leave, But I've looked again at this gabled house, And I fail to see it grieve. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HOUSE OF DUST: 1 by CONRAD AIKEN CONTRA MORTEM: THE MOUNTAIN FASTNESS by HAYDEN CARRUTH WHAT WE SAID THE LIGHT SAID by JAMES GALVIN CURTAIN by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE AUDACIOUS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE RIVALS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON |