The small house, very much alive, Wonders if we all are bent, On making life some sort of game And looks on with a deep content
At bicycles and bathing suits, Bats and roller skates, Bobby-socks and dungarees And diaries and dates — First tuxedo to appraise, Bow tie to approve, Clothes discarded on the floor Everywhere I move — High school year books, trophies won, Commencement and a formal prom, Phone bell or a door bell’s ring, “Is it Jack or Bill or Tom?” Corsages using up the space That always was reserved For more important things – like food – For dinner to be served.
It seems to say, “Dull moments where Life lifts its restless wing? Peace is found in homes where youth Knows no journeying.”
[taken from Where Childern Live (1958) by my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson]