 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
I.
I built a house for quiet and dim peace, —
A place whereto when weary I might go,
To sit alone and let the pent tears flow,
And feel a little while their bitter ease.
I built my house, I ringed it round with trees,
And often, when the sun and winds were low,
I sat and mused there, while there seemed to grow
A rest begotten of dear memories.
A place whereto when weary I might go,
To sit alone and let the pent tears flow,
And feel a little while their bitter ease.
I built my house, I ringed it round with trees,
And often, when the sun and winds were low,
I sat and mused there, while there seemed to grow
A rest begotten of dear memories.
But strange, unholy shapes with snake-wreathed brows
Did throng my refuge and defile my grove, —
So now no more about that house I move.
Still it looks peaceful through its shadowy boughs;
But voices from within the calm disprove:
What say you, then — shall I not burn my house?
Did throng my refuge and defile my grove, —
So now no more about that house I move.
Still it looks peaceful through its shadowy boughs;
But voices from within the calm disprove:
What say you, then — shall I not burn my house?
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |