I have no houses, builded well—
Only that little lonesome cell, 45
Where never romping playmates come,
Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb—
An April burst of girls and boys,
Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joys
Born with their songs, gone with their toys; 50
Nor ever is its stillness stirred
By purr of cat, or chirp of bird,
Or mother’s twilight legend, told