The Eighth Sin/Our House
OUR HOUSE.
It should be yours, if I could buildThe quaint old dwelling I desire,With books and pictures bravely filledAnd chairs beside an open fireWhite-panelled rooms with candles lit—I lie awake to think of it!
A dial for the sunny hours,A garden of old-fashioned flowers—Sav marigolds and lavenderAnd mignonette and fever-few,And Judas tree and maiden-hairAnd candytuft and thyme and rue—All these for you to wander in.
A Chinese carp (called Mandarin!)Waving a sluggish silver finDeep in the moat: so tame he comesTo lip your fingers offering crumbs.Tall chimneys, like long listening ears,White shutters, ivy green and thick,And walls of ruddy Tudor brickGrown mellow with the passing years.
And windows with small leaded panes,Broad window-seats for when it rains.A big blue bowl of pot-pourriAnd—yes, a Spanish chestnut-treeTo coin the autumn's minted gold.A summer-house for drinking tea—All these (just think!) for you and me.
A staircase of the old black woodCut in the days of Robin Hood,And banisters worn smooth as glassDown which your hand will lightly pass.A piano with dear yellow keysFor wistful twilight melodiesAnd dusty bottles in a bin—All these for you to revel in!
But when? Ah well, until that timeWe'll habit in this house of rhyme!