I did not build a lordly house
Here in my heart, to stand through time.
I only filled a little room
With joyous scraps of rhyme,

And pictures that no brush could trace,
And music that no harp could make.
I hung the walls about with joy
And gold for my dream's sake.

I pierced the walls with openings—
One for each season—windows four.
I wished to hold it through all time
So did not cut a door.

A workman from the goblin world
Carved me the ledges, fine and rare,
And bars of sunlight I had set
To hold my vision there.

With wonder of old tapestry
I hung the ceiling and the wall.
A clock, as every hour went past,
Rang a sweet madrigal

That some young poet wrote, years gone,
To some sweet lady, ages dead.
I had mock stars on either hand
And a gold sun overhead.

One window faced the April-time;
Grey poplars in a golden sheen;
Blue rivers breaking joyously
Like pictures on a screen.

One window faced the beautiful
Ripe Summer over all the land;
The clouds that drifted in the blue
Were white as my dream's hand.

One window faced the Autumn hills
Where maples set the world aflame.
There the Red Hunter built his fire
And cried his lady's name.

One window faced a dreary place
Where spruce-trees crowded the low sun;
Where Winter set his spotless seal
On all that joy had done.

And thus, not in a lordly house,
I housed the dream I had of love—
I kept it there between four walls
With a mimic sky above.

And thus live I in my small room—
With tricks of rhyme and my sweet dream,
Watching the suns of all the year
Across the casement gleam.

Sometime I think the walls will part
And some one enter—then I 'll wake
To know the room and dream were made
For some real maiden's sake.