My dream-fruit tree a palace bore
In stone's reality,
And friends and treasure, art and lore,
Came in to dwell with me.

But palaces for gods are made;
I shrank to man, or less;
Gold-barriered, yet chill, afraid,
My soul shook shelterless.

I found a cottage in a wood,
Warmed by a hearth and maid,
And fed and slept, and said 'twas good,—
Ah, love-nest in the shade!

The walls grew close, the roof pressed low,
Soft arms my jailers were;
My naked soul arose to go,
And shivered bright and bare.

No more I sought for covert kind;
The blast blew on my head;
And lo, with tempest and with wind
I felt me garmented.

Here on the hills the writhing storm
Cloaks well and shelters me;
I wrap me round and I am warm,
Warm for eternity.