Guest guest Posted March 2, 2011 Report Share Posted March 2, 2011 The Houseby RICHARD WILBURSometimes, on waking, she would close her eyesFor a last look at that white house she knewIn sleep alone, and held no title to,And had not entered yet, for all her sighs.What did she tell me of that house of hers?White gatepost; terrace; fanlight of the door;A widow's walk above the bouldered shore;Salt winds that ruffle the surrounding firs.Is she now there, wherever there may be?Only a foolish man would hope to findThat haven fashioned by her dreaming mind.Night after night, my love, I put to sea. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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