Mest lästa ▸
Stella Benson
My yesterday has gone, has gone and left me tired,
And now to-morrow comes and beats upon the door;
So I have built To-day, the day that I desired,
Lest joy come not again, lest peace return no more,
Lest comfort come no more.
So I have built To-day, a proud and perfect day,
And I have built the towers of cliffs upon the sands;
The foxgloves and the gorse I planted on my way;
The thyme, the velvet thyme, grew up beneath my hands,
Grew pink beneath my hands.
So I have built To-day, more precious than a dream;
And I have painted peace upon the sky above;
And I have made immense and misty seas, that seem
More kind to me than life, more fair to me than love--
More beautiful than love.
My soul lives in my body's house,
And you have both the house and her--
But sometimes she is less your own
Than a wild, gay adventurer;
A restless and an eager wraith,
How can I tell what she will do--
Oh, I am sure of my body's faith,
But what if my soul broke faith with you?
They are all gone away,
The House is shut and still,
There is nothing more to say.
Through broken walls and gray
The winds blow bleak and shrill:
They are all gone away.
Nor is there one to-day
To speak them good or ill:
There is nothing more to say.
Why is it then we stray
Around that sunken sill?
They are all gone away,
And our poor fancy-play
For them is wasted skill:
There is nothing more to say.
There is ruin and decay
whose kiss
was the first ever
was it like velvet
like a hungry clock
for the house
to spend time with
it begins to sing
as we reconsider
what to do or be
wind music
in a house by the water
night coming on
having to drink tea
in a dirty house I hear
the sound of water
the morning blush
a dish of plain meat
I want my heart to turn
to a house of play
sometimes pleased sometimes eased
evening comes by accident
let Scotch haunt
and scour our house
I fell and made my disturbance
beat her down in the cellar
the old oak rocks
taken by fire and exhaust
how an engine promises
the least world
a house which will be
very hard to love
the last pig
hanging from the house
moon on the marsh
so tender and melancholy
they cry like a child
on meeting with civil discourse
at the halfway house
but the poor souls at supper
fall out about saying grace
one hand owes money
to the other
night falling
on the cards of their house
their fish going
like nonsense words together
to and fro