The Lost House

Out of thy door I run to do the thing That calls upon me. Straight the wind of words Whoops from mine ears the sounds of them that sing About their work, 'My God, my father-king!' I turn in haste to see thy blessed door, But, lo, a cloud of flies and bats and birds, And stalking vapours, and vague monster-herds Have risen and lighted, rushed and swollen between! Ah me! the house of peace is there no more. Was it a dream then?-Walls, fireside, and floor, And sweet obedience, loving, calm, and free, Are vanished-gone as they had never been! I labour groaning. Comes a sudden sheen!- And I am kneeling at my father's knee, Sighing with joy, and hoping utterly.