Night after night forever the dolls lay stiff <br />by the children's dreams. On the goose-feathers of the rich, <br />on the straw of the poor, on the gypsy ground— <br />wherever the children slept, dolls have been found <br />in the subsoil of the small loves stirred again <br />by the Finders After Everything. Down lay <br />the children by their hanks and twists. Night after night <br />grew over imagination. The fuzzies shed, the bright <br />buttons fell out of the heads, arms ripped, and down <br />through goose-feathers, straw; and the gypsy ground <br />the dolls sank, and some—the fuzziest and most loved <br />changed back to string and dust, and the dust moved <br />dream-puffs round the Finders' boots as they dug, <br />sieved, brushed, and came on a little clay dog, <br />and a little stone man, and a little bone girl, that had kept <br />their eyes wide open forever, while all the children slept.<br /><br />John Ciardi<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dolls-2/
