A building's
nothing, unless it is loved.
Where the slow
trees curve down in tenderness,
And the long
lawns proclaim a yester-grace,
And the incisive
freedom is to care.
Where there are
ropes, and signs that say "Keep Off!"
All of the subtle
bindings of red tape;
Here creeps the
ivy, in its natural place;
Bright flower
beds, where bees hum endlessly.
Indoors, all
smells of polish and of tea.
Why do we come,
we pilgrims in fast cars?
All by our school
excursions so well trained,
To do the dutiful
and cultured thing?
Admirers of some
long-past architect?
Simply because
the brochures tell us to?
Just for the joy
of being out of town?
This is another
place. We pause to breathe
Another air, to
inhale history,
By-pass the
intellect, and taste the past.
Some think the
sun shines differently here,
Others maintain
its all too much the same,
(Duty and hope
provide the variance.)
Shut your
modernity outside the gate,
Walk up the
gravelled path with too loud steps.
Obedient to
training long ago,
Acknowledge with
your reverential nods,
Each listed
feature of some dwindled past.
We are all proper
children, hungering
For difference,
intrinsic novelty,
And fix our
glance on carpenter's neat joins.
Enter the doors,
adjust your eyes to dim.
Pay your
admission in the proper place,
Wish they had
better ventilation then;
And be
re-grounded in the human race.
Here is our
shrine, not some aesthetic goal
Nor a lust born
of pure intelligence,
Nor a bare duty,
which can ill sustain.
We come, pathetic
in humanity,
(Under our brazen
surface of finesse)
A rootless
people, moderned out of time.
Here, (and our
quest is dimly understood),
We seek to take
again the common cup,
Participate in
some continuance,
Drink deep our
joining in humanity;
Leaving our neat,
pre-packaged, ordered lives,
(If you can call
such automation life),
To be spectators
of some quickening grace,
Museum-processed
for posterity.
Dutifully read
the biographic notes,
Stare at the
furnishings, old-fashioned, strange;
Try to imagine
life in such a place.
Who would you be,
moved from this century,
To be
appurtenanced into this scene?
Is style a
stage-prop for identity?
Is all I am a
product of this time?
Rebuild the set,
rewrite your script of life;
Deconstruct all
that culture's made you be,
Unweave the
twisted threads of time and place,
See your bare
soul in all its poverty!
Bow, awed, before
the mystery of fate!
How little of
your deeply cherished pride
Remains intact
when you have stripped away
All the gains
wrought by opportunity.
This is humility,
and this is truth.
Or, more
resilient, picture yourself,
Romantically, the
hero of the hour.
Glide, stride
(according to your gender's choice)
Through panelled
corridors of mystery,
Mistress or
master of what never was.
Unblinker all
your ego's poor-lit dreams,
This is the
daylight hour, here feet trod
That ached in
weariness. Old age came young,
Fulfilment was as
transient as now,
Self-seeking
greed was just as arrogant,
And pleasure fled
before men knew its name.
Emerge into the
sun with grateful hearts,
Embrace, with
new-found thanks, your given life,
Glad of the time,
the place, and all that is,
Slightly
impoverished in complacency
Newly enlarged in
your humanity.
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