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.

Added: May 7 2003 | Viewed: 630 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Robinson Jeffers
Poem: To The House
There are no comments for this poem. Why not be the first one to post something about it?

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, To The House, has not yet been commented on. You can click here to be the first to post a comment about it. Of course you can also always discuss poems by Robinson Jeffers with others on the American Poems poetry forum!