O Thou that walkest with nigh hopeless feet
Past the one harbour, built for thee and thine.
Doth no stray odour from its table greet,
No truant beam from fire or candle shine?
At his wide door the host doth stand and call;
At every lattice gracious forms invite;
Thou seest but a dull-gray, solid wall
In forest sullen with the things of night!
Thou cravest rest, and Rest for thee doth crave,
The white sheet folded down, white robe apart.—
Shame, Faithless! No, I do not mean the grave!
I mean Love’s very house and hearth and heart.