“First there's the children's house of make-believe,
Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,
The playthings in the playhouse of the children.
Weep for what little things could make them glad.
Then for the house that is no more a house,
But only a belilaced cellar hole,
Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.’’
From “Directive,’’ by Robert Frost, written in 1946 and widely considered the greatest poem of his later years, and one of his most unsettling.
To read the whole poem, please hit this link.
