by Rachel Field
This is the key to the playhouse,
In the woods by the pebbly shore,
It's winter now, I wonder if
There's snow about the door?
I wonder if the fir trees tap
Green fingers on the pane,
If sea gulls cry and the roof is wet
And tinkly withrain?
I wonder if the flower-sprigged cups
And plates sit on their shelf
And if my little painted chair
Is rocking by itself?
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