THE HOUSE OF COLOUR

Mine gold is here; yea, heavy yellow gold,

Gathered ere Earth's first days and nights were fled;

And all the walls are hung with scarfs of red,

Broidered in fallen cities, fold on fold;

The stained window's saints are aureoled;

And all the textures of the East are spread

On the paved floor, whereon I lay my head,

And sleep, and count the coloured things of old.

Once, when the hills and I were all aflame

With envy of the pageant in the West

( Except the sombre pine-trees — whence there came,

Continually, the sigh of their unrest ),

A lonely crow sailed past me, black as shame,

Hugging some ancient sorrow to his breast.