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The Doll House

We're back again. The tiny golden key

Turns in a small escutcheon on the door

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So we may enter. Looking about, we see

Rooms we had last arranged long years before.

Charred logs are on the hearth, and silky flowers

At the bay window flourish in their vase;

The painted clocks, announcing different hours,

Assure us that, here, time is still in place.

Beds we'd assembled with meticulous care,

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With hand-embroidered sheets, look freshly made,

While curled up on a rug beside a chair

As if when told to "stay" he had obeyed,

The porcelain dog seems eager now to play

With children who have never moved away.

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