  My dream-fruit tree a palace bore In stone's reality, And friends and treasure, art and lore, Came in to dwell with me. But palaces for gods are made; I shrank to man, or less; Gold-barriered, yet chill, afraid, My soul shook shelterless. I found a cottage in a wood, Warmed by a hearth and maid, And fed and slept, and said 'twas good,— Ah, love-nest in the shade! The walls grew close, the roof pressed low, Soft arms my jailers were; My naked soul arose to go, And shivered bright and bare. The blast blew on my head; And lo, with tempest and with wind I felt me garmented. Here on the hills the writhing storm Cloaks well and shelters me; I wrap me round and I am warm, Warm for eternity. |
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