THE HOUSE
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here is no architectCan build as the Muse can;She is skilful to selectMaterials for her plan; Slow and warily to chooseRafters of immortal pine,Or cedar incorruptible,Worthy her design, She threads dark Alpine forestsOr valleys by the sea,In many lands, with painful steps,Ere she can find a tree. She ransacks mines and ledgesAnd quarries every rock,To hew the famous adamantFor each eternal block-- She lays her beams in music,In music every one,To the cadence of the whirling worldWhich dances round the sun-- That so they shall not be displacedBy lapses or by wars,But for the love of happy soulsOutlive the newest stars.
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