This is her room; this is her narrow bed Whereon each night her golden hair is spread. This is her glass wherein each morn she looks; These are her pictures; these are all her books. These are her trinkets, trophies girlish, gay; These are the toys she touches every day. This is her desk whereat she sits to write Letters that make the day that brings them bright. These are her fish that swim in water clear; This is her winged Love she most holds dear. This is her rug her eager feet have pressed; This is her chair wherein she sinks to rest When wearied with some simple task or pleasure. This is her clock whose hands her young hours measure; These are her walls that hold her heart at home. These are her windows, tempting her to roam. This is, in fine, her world; no world more wide, Since all her dreams start here or here abide. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CHAPERON by HENRY CUYLER BUNNER THE BOOK [OF THE WORLD] by WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS by FRANCIS HOPKINSON THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE LEGEND by JOHN VAN ALSTYN WEAVER WHITE SNOW by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE HINTS OF AN HISTORICAL PLAY TO BE CALLED WILLIAM RUFUS by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM |