See, all the silver roads wind in, lead in

To this still place like evening. See, they come

Like messengers bearing gifts to this little house,

And this great hill worn down to a patient mound,

And these tall trees whose motionless branches bear

An aeon’s summer foliage, leaves so thick

They seem to have robbed a world of shade, and kept

No room for all these birds that line the boughs

With heavier riches, leaf and bird and leaf.

Within the doorway stand

Two figures, Man and Woman, simple and clear

As a child’s first images. Their manners are

Such as were known before the earliest fashion

Taught the Heavens guile. The room inside is like

A thought that needed thus much space to write on,

Thus much, no more. Here all’s sufficient. None

That comes complains, and all the world comes here,

Comes, and goes out again, and comes again.

This is the Pattern, these the Prototypes,

Sufficient, strong, and peaceful. All outside

From end to end of the world is tumult. Yet

These roads do not turn in here but writhe on

Round the wild earth for ever. If a man

Should chance to find this place three times in Time

His eyes are changed and make a summer silence

Amid the tumult, seeing the roads wind in

To their still home, the house and the leaves and birds.