 | The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road |  |
THE HOUSE OF DREAMS.
I know a house, that stands remote,
With garden, barn, and pigeon-cote,
Below a hill, beyond a wood.
Like some old face beneath a hood,
Its barn, with its one window-eye,
Gray-roofed, and musk with hay and rye,
Keeps watch upon the old post-road,
That wanders by,
Down which goes many a creaking load.
With garden, barn, and pigeon-cote,
Below a hill, beyond a wood.
Like some old face beneath a hood,
Its barn, with its one window-eye,
Gray-roofed, and musk with hay and rye,
Keeps watch upon the old post-road,
That wanders by,
Down which goes many a creaking load.
192
'Tis always Autumn there; the ways
Are strewn with leaves; all day a haze
Spreads o'er the land a glimmering veil;
At eve the lone wind lifts a wail,
And, nearing midnight, comes the rain
And taps each dripping window pane;
And in the barn, at dawn, a flail
Beats, and a wain
Pulls, apple-laden, to its rail.
Are strewn with leaves; all day a haze
Spreads o'er the land a glimmering veil;
At eve the lone wind lifts a wail,
And, nearing midnight, comes the rain
And taps each dripping window pane;
And in the barn, at dawn, a flail
Beats, and a wain
Pulls, apple-laden, to its rail.
Sleep carpets all its rooms, whose doors
And windows look on misty moors,
And on a marsh where wade and pipe
The wild duck and the long-billed snipe;
And over which the House beholds
The Morn come, wrapped in ghostly golds;
And Day retire, in wild estate
Of Storm—that folds
His couch with purple, glaring hate.
And windows look on misty moors,
And on a marsh where wade and pipe
The wild duck and the long-billed snipe;
And over which the House beholds
The Morn come, wrapped in ghostly golds;
And Day retire, in wild estate
Of Storm—that folds
His couch with purple, glaring hate.
At dusk the moors disgorge the moon
Like some enormous egg; the loon
Screams somewhere, like a soul that's lost;
And everywhere a smell of frost
And sodden flowers and fruits and leaves
Makes mute the heart; a cricket grieves;
And one small window, seen afar,
Beneath vined eaves,
Gleams o'er the marsh like some bright star.
Like some enormous egg; the loon
Screams somewhere, like a soul that's lost;
And everywhere a smell of frost
And sodden flowers and fruits and leaves
Makes mute the heart; a cricket grieves;
And one small window, seen afar,
Beneath vined eaves,
Gleams o'er the marsh like some bright star.
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And there it sits and dreams its dreams,
The soul, that is a part, it seems,
Of this old house, unto whose door
Couriers come riding evermore,
Splashed with the leagues of clay and wet—
They bring strange news, that none may let,
Of days long past and days to be—
Days men forget,
And days no man shall ever see.
The soul, that is a part, it seems,
Of this old house, unto whose door
Couriers come riding evermore,
Splashed with the leagues of clay and wet—
They bring strange news, that none may let,
Of days long past and days to be—
Days men forget,
And days no man shall ever see.
| The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road | |