Wongan Way/Wongan Way I
Bright House of Dreams, your galleries extend;
Give larger place to Memory’s echoing halls.
Let golden cords from silver rods depend,
That I may hang more pictures on your walls.
What treasures have I gathered in the years
Of pilgrimage among the quiet hills.
No nobler work on Linton's walls appears;
No fairer fancy Rossi's studio fills.
All painted by the oldest masters too—
Sir Sol, his rainbow palette in his hand;
Luna, her silver pencil dipped in dew;
August, most handsome of Dame Flora’s band.
Dawn, with his taper fingers rosy red;
Evening, her royal shading unsurpassed.
The vagrant seasons, painting as they sped,
Vowing each master-piece to he their last.
These, and that super-craftsman, Cloud by name,
Did in times past their genius record.
Nature, the cunning dealer, knew their fame,
And cleverly their costly works restored.
Room then, for these: and for more precious things,
Bright House of Dreams, upon your mist-grey walls—
Portraits more fair than all imaginings;
Faces that smiled on me in Friendship's halls.
So build a larger place for Memory.
And though your shining door stands wide at night,
Yet would I use by day Love’s jewelled key,
And enter in, renewing my delight.