and 820The House Where I Abide
Dead grass and coal-dust clouds,
A barren, twisted tree,
And breezes find each gap in this old house
That coldly shelters me.
Within the hills there hangs a temple bell
That's hidden from my sight,
But from my porch I hear the distant knell,
In the waning of the light.
Overhead the planks are wrenched awry,
Defaced by age and water stain,
The warping of the cedar shakes lets by
A little light, a little rain.
And every vagrant wind that passes these
Too weak and futile walls,
Is carrying some strangers' fantasies,
Some lorn and lonely call.
Wind chimes and absent friends,
And whispers from the mist
Breathe portents I can scarcely apprehend
Of everything I risk.
But every broken window is a door,
And every door's thrown wide,
Where restless leaves curl runes upon the floor,
In the house where I abide.