The Crimson House

Love built a crimson house,     I know it well,     That he might have a home     Wherein to dwell.     Poor Love that roved so far     And fared so ill,     Between the morning star     And the Hollow Hill,     Before he found the vale     Where he could bide,     With memory and oblivion     Side by side.     He took the silver dew     And the dun red clay,     And behold when he was through     How fair were they!     The braces of the sky     Were in its girth,     That it should feel no jar     Of the swinging earth;     That sun and wind might bleach     But not destroy     The house that he had builded     For his joy.     "Here will I stay," he said,     "And roam no more,     And dust when I am dead     Shall keep the door."     There trooping dreams by night     Go by, go by.     The walls are rosy white     In the sun's eye.     The windows are more clear     Than sky or sea;     He made them after God's     Transparency.     It is a dearer place     Than kirk or inn;     Such joy on joy as there     Has never been.     There may my longed-for rest     And welcome be,     When Love himself unbars     The door for me!