The Doll House
We're back again. The tiny golden key
Turns in a small escutcheon on the door
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,
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.