MY dream-fruit tree a palace bore
In stone’s reality,
And friends and treasures, 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 ’t was 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.
No more I sought for covert kind;
The blast bore on my head;
And lo, with tempest and with wind
My soul was garmented.
Here on the hills the writhing storm
Cloaks well and shelters me;
I wrap me round, and I am warm,
Warm for eternity.