 | The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road |  |
THE HOUSE OF LIFE.
To what old friend or foe
Do I this hostel owe?
This prison-house no presence knows but mine,
Part bestial, part divine;
This house wherein oft shine
The lamps of dreams, the taper-glow
Of thoughts; where ghosts glide to and fro—
Old ghosts of hate and love, that sunder
The silence with their breathings low;
And, pale with wonder,
Hope and Despair, with footsteps swift or slow,
Pace in the darkness, its chief chamber under,
And come and go
Around the living clock that beats below.
Do I this hostel owe?
This prison-house no presence knows but mine,
Part bestial, part divine;
This house wherein oft shine
The lamps of dreams, the taper-glow
Of thoughts; where ghosts glide to and fro—
Old ghosts of hate and love, that sunder
The silence with their breathings low;
228
Hope and Despair, with footsteps swift or slow,
Pace in the darkness, its chief chamber under,
And come and go
Around the living clock that beats below.
I fancy He who willed it,
And out of silence drew
This house of joy and rue,
And with the darkness filled it,
Thought, in His Heart's high essence,
The wisest thing to do,
For me as well as you,
Was, in the walls He builded,
To hide, somewhere, the clue
That leads us to His presence
Above the starry blue.
And out of silence drew
This house of joy and rue,
And with the darkness filled it,
Thought, in His Heart's high essence,
The wisest thing to do,
For me as well as you,
Was, in the walls He builded,
To hide, somewhere, the clue
That leads us to His presence
Above the starry blue.
| The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road | |