Explore "The House of Colour" by Francis Sherman on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Mine gold is here; yea, heavy yellow gold, / Gathered ere Earth's first days and nights were fled; / And all the walls are hung with scarfs of red, / Broidered in fallen cities, fold on fold; / The stained window's saints are aureoled; / And all the textures of the East are spread / On the paved floor, whereon I lay my head, / And sleep, and count the coloured things of old.
Once, when the hills and I were all aflame / With envy of the pageant in the West / (Except the sombre pine-trees -- whence there came, / Continually, the sigh of their unrest), / A lonely crow sailed past me, black as shame, / Hugging some ancient sorrow to his breast.