COLD and cheerless, bare and bleak, The old house fronts the shabby street; And the dull windows eastward gaze, As their cobwebbed brows they raise, Just as though they looked to see What had become of you and me And all the other children. The dust drifts o'er the garret floor, The little feet tread there no more; But o'er the stage, still standing there, The Muse first stalked with tragic air And whispered low to you and me Of golden days that were to be For us and all the children. Good-bye, old house! Thy tattered cloak Is fringed with moss and gray with smoke; Within thy walls we used to see A gaunt old wolf named Poverty; Yet from thy rafters' dingy bars A ladder stretched up to the stars — For us and all the children. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PET NAME by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE CASTAWAY by WILLIAM COWPER THE TWO MYSTERIES by MARY ELIZABETH MAPES DODGE LAPLAND by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE LAST MAN: MEDITATION by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE LETTER by CHARLOTTE BRONTE SLEEP NOT, DREAM NOT by EMILY JANE BRONTE |