The Magic House
In her chamber, wheresoe’er Time shall build the walls of it, Melodies shall minister, Mellow sounds shall flit Through a dusk of musk and myrrh. Lingering in the spaces vague, Like the breath within a flute, Winds shall move along the stair; When she walketh mute Music meet shall greet her there. Time shall make a truce with Time, All the languid dials tell Irised hours of gossamer, Eve perpetual Shall the night or light defer. From her casement she shall see Down a valley wild and dim, Swart with woods of pine and fir; Shall the sunsets swim Red with untold gold to her. From her terrace she shall see Lines of birds like dusky motes Falling in the heated glare; How an eagle floats In the wan unconscious air. From her turret she shall see Vision of a cloudy place, Like a group of opal flowers On the verge of space, Or a town, or crown of towers. From her garden she shall hear Fall the cones between the pines; She shall seem to hear the sea, Or behind the vines Some small noise, a voice may be. But no thing shall habit there, There no human foot shall fall, No sweet word the silence stir, Naught her name shall call, Nothing come to comfort her. But about the middle night, When the dusk is loathéd most, Ancient thoughts and words long said, Like an alien host, There shall come unsummonéd. With her forehead on her wrist She shall lean against the wall And see all the dream go by; In the interval Time shall turn Eternity. But the agony shall pass-- Fainting with unuttered prayer, She shall see the world’s outlines And the weary glare And the bare unvaried pines.
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