I BUILT myself a pleasant house.
Content was I to dwell in it--
Its door was fast against the wind
With all the gusty swell of it.
It had two windows, high and clear,
With trees and skies to shine through them,
They were acquainted with the moon,
And every star was mine through them.
Its walls were silent walls; its hearth
Held little fires to gladden me--
And though the nights might weep outside
No sob crept through to sadden me.
Then came your hand upon the latch
(Although I had not sent for you)
And all Outside came blowing in
The way I had not meant it to!
Upon the hearth my tended flame
Leapt to a blaze and died in it.
The night sought out a hidden place
I had forgot and sighed in it.
My window that had known the stars
Seemed suddenly not high at all.
The trees drew back; the friendly birds
Swept dumbly by, too shy to call.
Said you: "It is a pleasant house,
But surely somewhat small for two!"--
And at your word my walls fell down,
Leaving no house at all, just you.
