The Poet's House Poem by Annie Adams Fields

BESIDE the Indian seas,
Hid in a sloping vale,
Candulla dwelt, a maid,
White as a wandering sail
That yields now to the breeze,
Now poises, unafraid.

The yellow primrose stands
Thus at the hour of even,
And thus to raise her hands
Seems in the face of heaven;
And so uplifts her eye
When the night of love draws nigh.

Candulla rose and passed
Pure to her lover's home,
A poet's perfect flower
Into his garden come;
But the blossoming day was the last, --
She faded there in the bower; --

And the poet stood alone!
There was silence on the stair,
There was stillness in the hall,
There was absence everywhere!
The summer of life was done,
She had vanished, his love, his all.

He saw her glimmering dress
Wave where the breezes blew,
And where the lilies shone
Her flying feet he knew;
And hers was all the loveliness,
The music hers alone.

Therefore the poet said:
'Stand open, O my door!
And bid the sun illume
Thy sorrow-darkened floor;
Bring garlands for the maid;
The song of life resume.'

A sound of gladness and song
Came from his opened door,
As of one who journeys in hope
Where love has traveled before,
And rejoices and is strong
In his joy forevermore.

Voices solemn and sweet,
Children laughing and gay,
Light and purpose of life,
Dawn and falling of May;
The garland of day replete
With flowers that cover the strife, --

Such is the poet's home!
Open the doors to the sun,
Gladness and glory and song,
Till the day of travel be done,
And the day of the Lord be come!
Garlands and song to the children of love belong.