Houses

Then a mason came forth and said, Speak to us of Houses.

Then a mason stepped forward and said, Tell us about Houses.

And he answered and said:

And he answered:

Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls.

Build a shelter from your dreams in the wilderness before you build a house within the city walls.

For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.

For just as you return home at twilight, so does the wanderer within you, always far away and alone.

Your house is your larger body.

Your home is your larger body.

It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. Does not your house dream? and dreaming, leave the city for grove or hilltop?

It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night. And it dreams. Doesn’t your house dream? In its dreams, doesn’t it leave the city for a grove or a hilltop?

Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.

I wish I could gather your houses in my hand and scatter them through forests and meadows, like a farmer sowing seeds.

Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.

I wish the valleys were your streets and the green paths your alleys. Then you could seek one another through vineyards and arrive with the fragrance of the earth on your clothes.

But these things are not yet to be.

But these things are not yet meant to happen.

In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.

In their fear, your ancestors gathered you too close together. That fear will last a little longer. For a little longer, your city walls will separate your homes from your fields.

And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?

And tell me, people of Orphalese, what do you have in these houses? What do you guard behind closed doors?

Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?

Do you have peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?

Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?

Do you have memories, those glowing arches that span the peaks of the mind?

Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?

Do you have beauty that leads the heart away from things made of wood and stone and toward the holy mountain?

Tell me, have you these in your houses?

Tell me, do you have these in your homes?

Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master?

Or do you have only comfort and the craving for comfort? That craving slips into the house as a guest, then becomes the host, and finally the master.

Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.

Yes, and it becomes a tamer. With a hook and a whip, it makes puppets of your greater desires.

Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.

Though its hands are silky, its heart is made of iron.

It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.

It lulls you to sleep, only to stand by your bed and mock the dignity of the body.

It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.

It mocks your sound senses and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.

Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.

The desire for comfort truly kills the passion of the soul, then walks grinning in its funeral procession.

But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.

But you, children of space, restless even at rest, will not be trapped or tamed.

Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.

Your house will be not an anchor but a mast.

It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.

It will not be a shining film over a wound, but an eyelid that protects the eye.

You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.

You will not fold your wings to pass through doors. You will not bow your heads to keep them from hitting the ceiling. Nor will you fear to breathe in case the walls crack and fall down.

You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.

You will not live in tombs that the dead built for the living.

And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.

And though your house is magnificent and splendid, it will not hold your secret or shelter your longing.

For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.

For the boundless part of you lives in the mansion of the sky. Its door is the morning mist, and its windows are the songs and silences of night.