The Poetry Corner

The Crimson House

By Bliss Carman (William)

Love built a crimson house, I know it well, That he might have a home Wherein to dwell. Poor Love that roved so far And fared so ill, Between the morning star And the Hollow Hill, Before he found the vale Where he could bide, With memory and oblivion Side by side. He took the silver dew And the dun red clay, And behold when he was through How fair were they! The braces of the sky Were in its girth, That it should feel no jar Of the swinging earth; That sun and wind might bleach But not destroy The house that he had builded For his joy. "Here will I stay," he said, "And roam no more, And dust when I am dead Shall keep the door." There trooping dreams by night Go by, go by. The walls are rosy white In the sun's eye. The windows are more clear Than sky or sea; He made them after God's Transparency. It is a dearer place Than kirk or inn; Such joy on joy as there Has never been. There may my longed-for rest And welcome be, When Love himself unbars The door for me!