The House

There is no architect
  Can build as the Muse can;
She is skilful to select
  Materials for her plan;

Slow and warily to choose
  Rafters of immortal pine,
Or cedar incorruptible,
  Worthy her design,

She threads dark Alpine forests
  Or valleys by the sea,
In many lands, with painful steps,
  Ere she can find a tree.

She ransacks mines and ledges
  And quarries every rock,
To hew the famous adamant
  For each eternal block-

She lays her beams in music,
  In music every one,
To the cadence of the whirling world
  Which dances round the sun-

That so they shall not be displaced
  By lapses or by wars,
But for the love of happy souls
  Outlive the newest stars.