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THE HOUSE OF CLAY.
- THERE was a house, a house of clay,
- Wherein the inmate sat all day,
- Merry and poor;
- For Hope sat with her, heart to heart,
- Fond and kind, fond and kind,
- Vowing he never would depart,—
- Till all at once he changed his mind:
- “Sweetheart, good by!” He slipped away
- And shut the door.
- But Love came past, and, looking in,
- With smile that pierced like sunbeam thin
- Through wall, roof, floor,
- Stood in the midst of that poor room,
- Grand and fair, grand and fair,
- Making a glory out of gloom:—
- Till at the window mocked grim Care:
- Love sighed; “All lose, and nothing win?”—
- He shut the door.
- Then o’er the close‐barred house of clay
- Kind clematis and woodbine gay
- Crept more and more;
- And bees hummed merrily outside,
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- Loud and strong, loud and strong,
- The inner silentness to hide,
- The patient silence all day long;
- Till evening touched with finger gray
- The bolted door.
- Most like, the next step passing by
- Will be the Angel’s, whose calm eye
- Marks rich, marks poor:
- Who, fearing not, at any gate
- Stands and calls, stands and calls;
- At which the inmate opens straight,—
- Whom, ere the crumbling clay‐house falls,
- He takes in kind arms silently,
- And shuts the door.
