The Book of the Rose

by Charles G.D. Roberts


 

THE HOUSE


 

     My heart is a house, deep-walled and warm,
     To cover you from the night of storm.

O little wild feet, too softly white
To roam the world's tempestuous night,
The years like sleet on my windows beat,—

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Come in and be cherished, O little wild feet.
     My heart is a house, deep-walled and warm,
     To cover you from the night of storm.

In the hillside hollow each lonely flower
Is closed against the disastrous hour.
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The wet crow rocks in the wind-blown tree;
The tern drivers in from the lashing sea.
      My heart is a house, deep-walled and warm,
     To cover you from the night of storm.

Down from the naked heights of cloud
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Care and despair cry low, cry loud.
The dark woods mutter with thronging fears;
The rocks are drenched with the rain of tears.
     My heart is a house, deep-walled and warm,
     To cover you from the night of storm.
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O little dark head, too dear and fair
For the buffeting skies and the bitter air,
Time sweeps the wold with his wings of dread,—
Come in and be comforted, little dark head.
     My heart is a house, deep-walled and warm,

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     To cover you from the night of storm.