On Houses from the Prophet by Khalil Gibran Build your imaginings,
A bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls.
For even as you have homecomings in your twilight,
So has the wanderer in you the ever-distant and alone.
Your house is your larger body.
It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night,
And it is not dreamless.
Does not your house dream,
And dreaming leave the city for grove and hilltop?
Would that I could gather your houses to my hand and like a sower scatter them in the forest and meadow?
Would the valleys or your streets and the green paths your alleys that you might seek one another through vineyards and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments?
But these things are not yet to be,
For in their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together,
And that fear shall endure a little longer.
A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearts from your fields.
And tell me,
People of Orphalese,
What have you in these houses,
And what is it you guard with fastened doors?
Have you peace,
The quiet urge that reveals your power?
Have you remembrances,
The glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
Have you beauty that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
Tell me,
Have you these things in your houses,
Or have you only comfort and the lust for comfort,
That stealthy thing that enters the house a guest and then becomes a host and then a master and it becomes a tamer and with a hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.
Though its hands are silken,
Its heart is of iron.
It lulls you to sleep only to stand at your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.
It makes mock of your sound senses and lays them in thistle down like fragile vessels.
Verily,
The lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul and then walks grinning in the funeral.
But you,
Children of space,
You restless in rest,
You shall not be trapped nor tamed.
Your house shall not be an anchor but a mast.
It shall not be a glistening film that covers a womb but an eyelid that guards the eye.
You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors nor bend your head that they strike not against the ceiling nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.
You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living and though of magnificence and splendor,
Your houses shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longings for that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion in the sky whose door is the morning mist and whose windows are the songs and the silence of night.
