This is an empty house; not a stick of furniture left, not even a newspaper sodden with rain under a broken window; nothing to tell us the style of the people who lived here, but that they took it along. But wait: here, penciled in inches up a doorframe, these little marks mark the growth of a child impatient to get on with it, a child stretching his neck in a hurry to leave nothing here but an absence grown tall in a doorway. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOMING BRAVES by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON WYNKEN, BLYNKEN AND NOD by EUGENE FIELD THE JOURNEY ONWARDS by THOMAS MOORE SONG by WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE THE TOOTHPICK by GHALIB IBN RIBAH AL-HAJJAM MIRACLES by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH HIS WORST ENEMY by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |