| A poem by Emily Dickinson
I KNOW some lonely houses off the road
A robber 'd like the look of,--
Wooden barred,
And windows hanging low,
Inviting to
A portico,
Where two could creep:
One hand the tools,
The other peep
To make sure all 's asleep.
Old-fashioned eyes,
Not easy to surprise!
How orderly the kitchen 'd look by night,
With just a clock,--
But they could gag the tick,
And mice won't bark;
And so the walls don't tell,
None will.
A pair of spectacles ajar just stir--
An almanac's aware.
Was it the mat winked,
Or a nervous star?
The moon slides down the stair
To see who 's there.
There 's plunder,--where?
Tankard, or spoon,
Earring, or stone,
A watch, some ancient brooch
To match the grandmamma,
Staid sleeping there.
Day rattles, too,
Stealth 's slow;
The sun has got as far
As the third sycamore.
Screams chanticleer,
"Who 's there?"
And echoes, trains away,
Sneer--"Where?"
While the old couple, just astir,
Think that the sunrise left the door ajar!
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