Poems about House poems

I went to Love's old treasure house last night, Alone, when all the world was still -- asleep, And saw the miser Memory, grown gray With years of jealous counting of his gems, There seated. Keen w

'This envelope you say has something in it Which once belonged to your dead son—or something He knew, was fond of? Something he remembers?— The soul flies far, and we can only call it By thin

Of what she said to me that night—no matter.The strange thing came next day.My brain was full of music—something she played me—;I couldn't remember it all, but phrases of itWreathed and wrea

As evening falls,And the yellow lights leap one by oneAlong high walls;And along black streets that glisten as if with rain,The muted city seemsLike one in a restless sleep, who lies and dreamsO

Command the roof, great Genius, and from thenceInto this house pour down thy influence,That through each room a golden pipe may runOf living water by thy benizon;Fulfil the larders, and with stren

Well, as you say, we live for small horizons:We move in crowds, we flow and talk together,Seeing so many eyes and hands and faces,So many mouths, and all with secret meanings,—Yet know so little

All ye good people, afar and near,To my request pray lend an ear;I advise you all without delay to goAnd see the Fair Maid's House - it is a rare show. Some of the chairs there are very grand,Th

The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office,And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowlyTowards the dazzling street.Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing.The long stairs

Over the darkened city, the city of towers,The city of a thousand gates,Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers,Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates,The slow wind flows, dreari

Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towersThe golden lights go out . . .The yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn,In thousands of rooms we sleep, we await the dawn,We lie face dow

You see that porcelain ranged there in the window—Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds,And tiny violets, and wreaths of ivy?See how the pattern clings to the gleaming edges!They

More towers must yet be built—more towers destroyed—Great rocks hoisted in air;And he must seek his bread in high pale sunlightWith gulls about him, and clouds just over his eyes . . .And so h