 | Jones Very : The Complete Poems |  |
The House
I build a house, but in this 'twill appear;That I have built it not, a shining forth
Of that bright palace that from year to year
New pillars has and domes from my own worth;
The wondrous hand that forms it; in the sea,
In crystal depths fashions the coral pile,
The sun-lit roof that o'er our heads we see,
Earth's grassy plain that stretches mile on mile;
'Tis round me like the morning's presence, felt
As that in which apart I live from all;
A zone that girds me like Orion's belt,
That I be seen the more on that bright wall,
Where all, as golden constellations, shine
With their own light, yet lit with Light Divine.
Poem No. 216; fall 1838–summer 1839
| Jones Very : The Complete Poems | |