by: Robert Louis Stevenson

      NAKED house, a naked moor,
      A shivering pool before the door,
      A garden bare of flowers and fruit
      And poplars at the garden foot:
      Such is the place that I live in,
      Bleak without and bare within.
      Yet shall your ragged moor receive
      The incomparable pomp of eve,
      And the cold glories of dawn
      Behind your shivering trees be drawn;
      And when the wind from place to place
      Doth the unmoored cloud-galleons chase,
      Your garden gloom and gleam again,
      With leaping sun, with glancing rain.
      Here shall the wizard moon ascend
      The heavens, in the crimson end
      Of day's declining splendour; here
      The army of the stars appear.
      The neighbor hollows dry or wet,
      Spring shall with tender flowers beset;
      And oft the morning muser see
      Larks rising from the broomy lea,
      And every fairy wheel and thread
      Of cobweb dew-bediamonded.
      When daisies go, shall winter time
      Silver the simple grass with rime;
      Autumnal frosts enchant the pool
      And make the cart-ruts beautiful;
      And when snow-bright the moor expands,
      How shall your children clap their hands!
      To make this earth our hermitage,
      A cheerful and a changeful page,
      God's bright and intricate device
      Of days and seasons doth suffice.

'The House Beautiful' is reprinted from An Anthology of Modern Verse. Ed. A. Methuen. London: Methuen & Co., 1921.




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