The House of the Silent Years

THE Silent House it standeth wide, —
Yea, open is the door ;
The winds of Peace from every side
Blow round it evermore.

Unhewn of axe, unmade of hands,
Its walls so broad and still;
Like to a sea the pale gray lands
Flow up to the gray sill.

Candle were vain, and sun but dim,
For here the Dark doth cease ;
Nor drink nor meat is spread for him
Who suppeth here with Peace.

Arrows speed not, nor hurtling spear,
Nor plague cometh to slay ;
Viol and rebec make no cheer,
For Song hath had his day.

Grief shattereth here his weary cup;
No watch the hours do keep
That they may call the red East up,
Or soothe the West to sleep.

Fashions, desires, dreams, swarming fears,
Fade past the threshold gray;
One day is as a thousand years,
A thousand years one day.