On Houses

Then a mason came forth and said,Speak to us of Houses.

And he answered and said:

Build of your imaginings a bower in thewilderness ere you build a house withinthe city walls.

For even as you have home-comings inyour twilight, so has the wanderer inyou, the ever distant and alone.

Your house is your larger body.

It grows in the sun and sleeps in thestillness of the night; and it is notdreamless. Does not your house dream?and dreaming, leave the city for groveor hilltop?

Would that I could gather your housesinto my hand, and like a sower scatterthem in forest and meadow.

Would the valleys were your streets, andthe green paths your alleys, that youmight seek one another throughvineyards, and come with the fragranceof the earth in your garments.

But these things are not yet to be.

In their fear your forefathers gatheredyou too near together. And that fearshall endure a little longer. A littlelonger shall your city walls separateyour hearths from your fields.

And tell me, people of Orphalese, whathave you in these houses? And what is ityou guard with fastened doors?

Have you peace, the quiet urge thatreveals your power?

Have you remembrances, the glimmeringarches that span the summits of themind?

Have you beauty, that leads the heartfrom things fashioned of wood and stoneto the holy mountain?

Tell me, have you these in your houses?

Or have you only comfort, and the lustfor comfort, that stealthy thing thatenters the house a guest, and thenbecomes a host, and then a master?

Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and withhook and scourge makes puppets of yourlarger desires.

Though its hands are silken, its heartis of iron.

It lulls you to sleep only to stand byyour bed and jeer at the dignity of theflesh.

It makes mock of your sound senses, andlays them in thistledown like fragilevessels.

Verily the lust for comfort murdersthe passion of the soul, and then walksgrinning in the funeral.

But you, children of space, you restlessin rest, you shall not be trapped nortamed.

Your house shall be not an anchor but amast.

It shall not be a glistening film thatcovers a wound, but an eyelid thatguards the eye.

You shall not fold your wings that youmay pass through doors, nor bend yourheads that they strike not against aceiling, nor fear to breathe lest wallsshould crack and fall down.

You shall not dwell in tombs made by thedead for the living.

And though of magnificence andsplendour, your house shall not holdyour secret nor shelter your longing.

For that which is boundless in youabides in the mansion of the sky, whosedoor is the morning mist, and whosewindows are the songs and the silencesof night.