A House

Now very quietly, and rather mournfully,In clouds of hyacinth the sun retires,And all the stubble-fields that were so warm to himKeep but in memory their borrowed fires.

And I, the traveller, break, still unsatisfied,From that faint exquisite celestial strand,And turn and see again the only dwelling-placeIn this wide wilderness of darkening land.

The house, that house, O now what change has come to it,Its crude red-brick facade, its roof of slate;What imperceptible swift hand has given itA new, a wonderful, a queenly state?

No hand has altered it, that parallelogram,So inharmonious, so ill arranged;That hard blue roof in shape and colour's what it was;No, it is not that any line has changed.

Only that loneliness is now accentuateAnd, as the dusk unveils the heaven's deep cave,This small world's feebleness fills me with awe again,And all man's energies seem very brave.

And this mean edifice, which some dull architectBuilt for an ignorant earth-turning hind,Takes on the quality of that magnificentUnshakable dauntlessness of human kind.

Darkness and stars will come, and long the night will be,Yet imperturbable that house will rest,Avoiding gallantly the stars' chill scrutiny,Ignoring secrets in the midnight's breast.

Thunders may shudder it, and winds demoniacMay howl their menaces, and hail descend;Yet it will bear with them, serenely, steadfastly,Not even scornfully, and wait the end.

And all a universe of nameless messengersFrom unknown distances may whisper fear,And it will imitate immortal permanence,And stare and stare ahead and scarcely hear.

It stood there yesterday; it will to-morrow, too,When there is none to watch, no alien eyesTo watch its ugliness assume a majestyFrom this great solitude of evening skies.

So lone, so very small, with worlds and worlds around,While life remains to it prepared to outfaceWhatever awful unconjectured mysteriesMay hide and wait for it in time and space.