MY HOUSE IS NOT MADE WITH HANDS.
147
MY HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS.
T is so old, the date is dim;I hear the wise man vexing him
With effort vain to count and read,
But to his words I give small heed,
Except of pity that so late
He sitteth wrangling in the gate,
When he might come with me inside,
And in such peace and plenty bide.
The constant springs and summers thatch,
With leaves that interlock and match,
Such roof as keeps out fiercest sun
And gentle rain, but one by one
Lets in blue banner-gleams of sky
As pomp of day goes marching by
Under these roofs I lie whole days,
Watching the steady household ways:
Innumerable creatures come
And go, and are far more at home
Than I, who like dumb giant sit
Baffled by all their work and wit.
No smallest of them condescends
To notice me; their hidden ends
They follow, and above, below,
Across my bulky shape they go,
With swift, sure feet, and subtle eyes,
Too keen and cautious for surprise
In vain I try their love to reach;
Not one will give me trust or speech.
