The House Of Colour

Mine gold is here; yea, heavy yellow gold, Gathered ere Earth's first days and nights were fled; And all the walls are hung with scarfs of red, Broidered in fallen cities, fold on fold; The stained window's saints are aureoled; And all the textures of the East are spread On the paved floor, whereon I lay my head, And sleep, and count the coloured things of old. Once, when the hills and I were all aflame With envy of the pageant in the West (Except the sombre pine-trees--whence there came, Continually, the sigh of their unrest), A lonely crow sailed past me, black as shame, Hugging some ancient sorrow to his breast.