The speakers seem to be dolls, now packed away in a box in the attic. The poem never says so outright, but the clues add up: "painted beds," nightgowns, being "wrapped in paper," and the fragile ones among them being protected. Once they crept around the house at night while a child slept, annoying the cats. Now they are shut in, with no key and no way out.
The mood is quiet, wistful, and a little sad. The dolls can hear "solemn murmurings" beyond the door, but the grown-up voice is a "far-off tongue" they can't understand, which suggests how far the child has moved from play. They miss hands, stories, buggy rides, and cambric tea. Their memories of Grandma's careful sewing, and the photographs of little girls and a brother with a hammer, show a lasting love for a family that has moved on. The ending is gentle rather than angry. The dolls wait, remember, and hold onto what they were made for.