HOUSE-WITHOUT-ROOF
BY EDITH M. THOMAS
HOUSE-WITHOUT-ROOF my house I called,
Whether in palaces I dwelt
Or lowly cot, clay-paved and walled;
And, if at wayside cross I knelt,
Or if at shrine, for me the place
Dissolved into hypæthral space.
Beside the fire on mine own hearth,
While household hours slipped softly by,
With those most dearly loved on earth,
Still would the ceiling fade on high;
And, as the sparks my fire up-sent,
My soul escaped above, unpent.
The lightnings oftentimes she drew,
And crossed the wingèd migrants’ flight;
She sought her roof in midday blue,
Where tender cloud-weft fails from sight—
In evening-red’s ethereal bars—
Or vault of night with brede of stars.
She sought—but higher yet must rise
The courses of her mansionry;
Beyond these skies to Other Skies,
Its walls cut through so sheer, so free;
Beyond the brede of stars, aloof,
I look—but nowhere find a Roof!