Classic Poem

This house in which you live,
Out of a hill derivative,
Took from hill, tree, and stone
Hill-strength, blood and bone.

Shaped to the hill's shape,
Wearing wind like a cape,
Shaking wind loose like hair
Let down with little care.

Here, in the water-shed,
Water drips from overhead;
When wind and rain quarrel
Water drips in a barrel.

Water went into the nerve
Of this house: that liquid curve
In roof and lintel show
How water washed it so.

It is good that underground
Water makes a homely sound;
As we walk it is good
To feel that murmur in our blood.

At this house let there howl
No hound, no ghost prowl;
Here only let it please
Rain to water white peas.

Here let us dig and rake,
Lay dung for the white pea's sake,
Breathe hard at our work and let
Our teeth taste the clean sweat.

And turn to a beech log spitting blue
Fire when the day is through;
Eat, drink, and go to bed
Like wind and water quieted.