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Perhaps, to where it ended at a house I didn't know was there. It was the kind To bring me to for broad-board panelling. I never saw so good a house deserted.

"Excuse me if I ask you in a window That happens to be broken," Davis said. "The outside doors as yet have held against us. I want to introduce you to the people Who used to live here. They were Robinsons. You must have heard of Clara Robinson, The poetess who wrote the book of verses And had it published. It was all about The posies on her inner window sill, And the birds on her outer window sill, And how she tended both, or had them tended: She never tended anything herself. She was ' shut in ' for life. She lived her whole Life long in bed, and wrote her things in bed. I'll show you how she had her sills extended To entertain the birds and hold the flowers. Our business first's up attic with her books."

We trod uncomfortably on crunching glass Through a house stripped of everything Except, it seemed, the poetess's poems. Books, I should say!—if books are what is needed. A whole edition in a packing-case, That, overflowing like a horn of plenty, Or like the poetess's heart of love, Had spilled them near the window toward the light, Where driven rain had wet and swollen them. Enough to stock a village library—