Poems (Jackson)/My House not made with Hands
T is so old, the date is dim;I hear the wise man vexing himWith effort vain to count and read,But to his words I give small heed,Except of pity that so lateHe 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 sunAnd gentle rain, but one by oneLets in blue banner-gleams of skyAs pomp of day goes marching byUnder these roofs I lie whole days,Watching the steady household ways:Innumerable creatures comeAnd go, and are far more at homeThan I, who like dumb giant sitBaffled by all their work and wit.No smallest of them condescendsTo notice me; their hidden endsThey follow, and above, below,Across my bulky shape they go,With swift, sure feet, and subtle eyes,Too keen and cautious for surpriseIn vain I try their love to reach;Not one will give me trust or speech. No second look the furry beeGives, as he bustles round, to me;Before my eyes slim spiders takeTheir silken ladders out and makeNo halt, no secret, scaling whereThey like, and weaving scaffolds there;The beaded ants prick out and in,Mysterious and dark and thin;With glittering spears and gauzy mailLegions of insects dart and sail,Swift Bedouins of the pathless air,Finding rich plunder everywhere;Sweet birds, with motion more sereneThan stillest rest, soar up betweenThe fleecy clouds, then, sinking slow,Light on my roof. I do not knowThat they are there till flutteringLow sounds, like the unravellingOf tight-knit web, their soft wings make,Unfurling farther flight to take.All through my house is set out food,Ready and plenty, safe and good,In vessels made of cunning shapes,Whose liquid spicy sweet escapesBy drops at brims of yellow bowls,Or tips of trumpets red as coals,Or cornucopias pink and white,By millions set in circles tight;Red wine turned jelly, and in mouldsOf pointed calyx laid on foldsOf velvet green; fruit-grains of brown,Like dusty shower thickly strewn On underside of fronds, and hidUnless one lift the carven lid;And many things which in my hasteAnd ignorance I reckon waste,Unsightly and unclean, I findAre but delicious food, designedFor travellers who come each day,And eat, and drink, and go their way.I am the only one who needGo hungry where so many feed;My birthright of protection lost,Because of fathers' sins the costIs counted in the children's blood:I starve where once I might have stoodContent and strong as bird or bee,Feeding like them on flower or tree.When I have hunger, I must riseAnd seek the poisons I despise,Leaving untouched on every handThe sweet wild foods of air and land,And leaving all my happier kinOf beasts and birds behind to winThe great rewards which only theyCan win who Nature's laws obey.
MY HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS.
T is so old, the date is dim;I hear the wise man vexing himWith effort vain to count and read,But to his words I give small heed,Except of pity that so lateHe 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 sunAnd gentle rain, but one by oneLets in blue banner-gleams of skyAs pomp of day goes marching byUnder these roofs I lie whole days,Watching the steady household ways:Innumerable creatures comeAnd go, and are far more at homeThan I, who like dumb giant sitBaffled by all their work and wit.No smallest of them condescendsTo notice me; their hidden endsThey follow, and above, below,Across my bulky shape they go,With swift, sure feet, and subtle eyes,Too keen and cautious for surpriseIn vain I try their love to reach;Not one will give me trust or speech. No second look the furry beeGives, as he bustles round, to me;Before my eyes slim spiders takeTheir silken ladders out and makeNo halt, no secret, scaling whereThey like, and weaving scaffolds there;The beaded ants prick out and in,Mysterious and dark and thin;With glittering spears and gauzy mailLegions of insects dart and sail,Swift Bedouins of the pathless air,Finding rich plunder everywhere;Sweet birds, with motion more sereneThan stillest rest, soar up betweenThe fleecy clouds, then, sinking slow,Light on my roof. I do not knowThat they are there till flutteringLow sounds, like the unravellingOf tight-knit web, their soft wings make,Unfurling farther flight to take.All through my house is set out food,Ready and plenty, safe and good,In vessels made of cunning shapes,Whose liquid spicy sweet escapesBy drops at brims of yellow bowls,Or tips of trumpets red as coals,Or cornucopias pink and white,By millions set in circles tight;Red wine turned jelly, and in mouldsOf pointed calyx laid on foldsOf velvet green; fruit-grains of brown,Like dusty shower thickly strewn On underside of fronds, and hidUnless one lift the carven lid;And many things which in my hasteAnd ignorance I reckon waste,Unsightly and unclean, I findAre but delicious food, designedFor travellers who come each day,And eat, and drink, and go their way.I am the only one who needGo hungry where so many feed;My birthright of protection lost,Because of fathers' sins the costIs counted in the children's blood:I starve where once I might have stoodContent and strong as bird or bee,Feeding like them on flower or tree.When I have hunger, I must riseAnd seek the poisons I despise,Leaving untouched on every handThe sweet wild foods of air and land,And leaving all my happier kinOf beasts and birds behind to winThe great rewards which only theyCan win who Nature's laws obey.Under these roofs of waving thatch,Lying whole days to dream and watch,I find myself grow more and moreVassal of summer than before;Allegiances I thought were swornFor life I break with hate and scorn. One thing alone I hope, desire:To make my human life come nigherThe life these lead whose silent gazeReproaches me and all my ways;To glide along as they all glide,Submissive and unterrified,Without a thought of loss or gain,Without a jar of haste or pain,And go, without one quickened breath,Finding all realms of life, of death,But summer hours in sunny lands,To my next house not made with hands.