To the House

I am heaping the bones of the old mother

To build us a hold against the host of the air;

Granite the blood-heat of her youth

Held molten in hot darkness against the heart

Hardened to temper under the feet

Of the ocean cavalry that are maned with snow

And march from the remotest west.

This is the primitive rock, here in the wet

Quarry under the shadow of waves

Whose hollows mouthed the dawn; little house each stone

Baptized from that abysmal font

The sea and the secret earth gave bonds to affirm you.