Dream House

Little dream house, looking down on the lake, Hard to believe one is really awake Reaching the end of the old shaded lane, Seeing soft light from each diamond-shaped pane, Of old casement windows—the wide open door Framing a welcome—sounds greet you before You cross the threshold; soft firelight within November without—and soon we begin To feel the charm of each cheerful room. And in the still lake the harvest moon And tall green rushes, the drooping trees— A night bird flying against the breeze, Low purple clouds with their golden rims Reflected there—Night sings muted hymns . . . Pine trees, eucalyptus—and oak Holding blue haze, hills wreathed in smoke.

The morning star is pale and high Fading there in a primrose sky. Silver dawn steals across the lake Golden pheasants and ducks awake. The sun paints patterns on the wall And morning sounds from the kitchen call; The whiff of coffee and cheerful clatter— Is someone mixing the waffle batter? Bright marigolds in a turquoise bowl Gay chintz at windows puts songs in your soul. The yellow cups on a cloth of blue Little dream house—sure, the heart of you Is built on beauty—with faith is filled; Under your roof all our cares are still'd. While scarlet vines to your windows cling And roses sleep to await the Spring

You shelter hearts held in love's wide beams; O, guard them well, little house of dreams!