Sometimes, on waking, she would close her eyes For a last look at that white house she knew In sleep alone, and held no title to, And had not entered yet, for all her sighs. What did she tell me of that house of hers? White gatepost; terrace; fanlight of the door; A widow's walk above the bouldered shore; Salt winds that ruffle the surrounding firs. Is she now there, wherever there may be? Only a foolish man would hope to find That haven fashioned by her dreaming mind. Night after night, my love, I put to sea.
From Anterooms: New Poems and Translation by Richard Wilbur. Copyright © 2010 by Richard Wilbur. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.
The author of numerous books of poetry, Richard Wilbur was a recipient of the Wallace Stevens Award and served as a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets from 1961 to 1995.
Date Published: 2010-01-01
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/house