Oh Little House of Pleasant Dreams, The dreams are fled And you are but four empty walls Whose soul is dead. The garden that was magic soil Is common loam, And there is nothing but a house Which was a Home. Still through your windows shines the sun And breathes the air, The quaint old rugs and furniture Unchanged, are there; Yet they seem bathed in ghostly light Chill, pale and wan, For there's no warmth in any house Whose dreams are gone. Love touched you with its rosy glow By night and day But love with clipped and wounded wings Has limped away, And leaves a shelter—nothing more— Of wood and stone. A Little House of Pleasant Dreams Whose dreams are flown. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...UNDER THE WATERFALL by THOMAS HARDY IMPROMPTU TO LADY WINCHILSEA by ALEXANDER POPE AVE ATQUE VALE; IN MEMORY OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE THANKS BE TO GOD by JANIE ALFORD DEDICATION TO POEMS, LYRICS AND SONNETS by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON RED RIVER EVENING by PAUL SOUTHWORTH BLISS GOING CROSSLOTS IN VERMONT by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY CRUCIFIXUS PRO NOBIS: 2. CHRIST IN THE GARDEN by PATRICK CAREY |