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OR love of lovely words, and for the
Of those, my kinsmen and my countrymen, Who early and late in the windy ocean toiled
To plant a star for seamen, where was then
SKERRYVORE: THE PARALLEL
ERE all is sunny, and when the truant gull
Skims the green level of the lawn, his wing Dispetals roses; here the house is framed Of kneaded brick and the plumed mountain pine,
Such clay as artists fashion and such wood As the tree-climbing urchin breaks. But there
Eternal granite hewn from the living isle And dowelled with brute iron, rears a tower That from its wet foundation to its crown Of glittering glass, stands, in the sweep of winds,
Immovable, immortal, eminent.
Y house, I say.
MY sunny doves
But hark to the
That make my roof the arena of their loves,
Our house, they say; and mine, the cat declares
And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs;
And mine the dog, and rises stiff with wrath If any alien foot profane the path.
So, too, the buck that trimmed my terraces, Our whilom gardener, called the garden his; Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode And his late kingdom, only from the road.
Y body which my dungeon is,
And when the night begins to fall
When evening takes her on her way,
Which is so broad and high that there,
And faints in the blue infinite: ·
Which is so strong, my strongest throes And the rough world's besieging blows Not break it, and so weak withal, Death ebbs and flows in its loose wall As the green sea in fishers' nets, And tops its topmost parapets:
Which is so wholly mine that I Can wield its whole artillery, And mine so little, that my soul Dwells in perpetual control, And I but think and speak and do As my dead fathers move me to: If this born body of my bones The beggared soul so barely owns, What money passed from hand to hand, What creeping custom of the land, What deed of author or assign, Can make a house a thing of mine?