Not those who have lived here and gone but what they have left: a worn-out broom, coat hangers, the legs of a doll, errors of possession to remind us of ourselves; but for drunkenness or prayers the walls collapse in boredom, or any new ecstasy could hold them up, any moan or caress or pillow-muffled laugh; leaving behind as a gift seven rooms of air once thought cathedral, those imagined beasts at windows, her griefs hung from the ceiling for spectacle. But finally here I am often there in its vacant shabbiness, standing back to a window in the dark, carried by the house as history, a boat, deeper into a year, into the shadow of all that happened there. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SUNSET: ST. LOUIS by SARA TEASDALE PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES by FRANCIS BRET HARTE THE SECRETARY; WRITTEN AT THE HAGUE, 1696 by MATTHEW PRIOR A SONG FOR MY FELLOWS by ALEXANDER ANDERSON THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH: BOOK 4. THE PASSIONS by JOHN ARMSTRONG |