Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a
house within the city walls.
For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the
wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.
Your house is your larger body.
It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night;
and it is not dreamless.
Does not your house dream? and dreaming, leave the city for grove
or hill-top?
Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a
sower scatter them in forest and meadow.
Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys
that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with
the fragrance of the earth in your garments.
But these things are not yet to be.
In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together.
And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall
your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.
What have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with
fastened doors?
Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?
Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits
of the mind?
Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood
and stone to the holy mountain?
Tell me, have you these in our house?
Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy
thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and
then a master?
Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets
of your larger desires.
Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.
It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the
dignity of the flesh.
It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown
like fragile vessels.
Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and
then walks grinning in the funeral.
But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not
be trapped nor tamed.
Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.
It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an
eyelid that guards the eye.
You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors,
nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling,
nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.
You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living>
And though of magnificence and slendour, your house shall not
hold your secret nor shelter your longing.
For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the
sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the
songs and the silences of night.
