Yet once more I dream. Once more a voice says:
“Build a house for the sun, with a winding stair
for the wandering light to go up and rest
before labour.
Cold, cold are the winds from the unmade world.
—Summon the mighty trades:
shipwrights, pipe-fitters, naked foundry men,
and lens grinders—(all of them philosophers)—
and also the secret masons, and the garrulous
watermen (to pass the time on long crossings).
Let the name of the house be ‘Port Sunlight.’ ”
Cold, cold are the winds from the unmade world.
Now, who will wake the sun in his well-built house,
Port Sunlight? In his room, curtains are drawn
and the window-shades are down. The shades knock
against the frame of the open window. Winds
live and die in the garden. The garden oak,
in its mysterious well, puts certain questions:
“The clock—what does it say?
The scales—what do they weigh?”
Cold, cold are the winds from the unmade world.
—Between sleeping and waking, one afternoon,
the sun in his dream hears sounds downstairs,
mysterious actions and couplings. Suddenly,
the sun hears something unmistakable:
Beatrice—in heels—is coming up the stair.
Cold, cold are the winds from the unmade world.
This is the last song you will hear from me—
the masterwork that comes to mind at the
final moment, when it is too dark to see.
