First, there’s the poem. HOUSE OF MIRTH (1st Version) “What is it worth, this house of mirth when at the door life comes no more and silence rings and ears do sting, The bell, they do abhor?” ~ S. A. McNutt Then there’s the memory that surrounds it. This is my husband’s favorite poem. He’d quote it back to me across the years. Did I write it in our first Colorado apartment, scribbled in a notebook? What about all the times I struggled with the second stanza?