Shabby house--wall
Of bricks once yellow,
Dingied with city grime,
Dusty and sallow,
The high sun, glorying
In clear gold, edges
Your crumbled mortar's
Luminous ledges.
You glow with a touch
From the pure sky.
And suddenly all
Is new to the eye.
I see you as labour's
Rough fruit and homely,
Raised morning by morning
To an order comely;
Labour of hands long dead,
Living, when all's at rest,
After the dark has come
And the light gone West.
