then a mason came forth and said, speak to us of houses.
and he ansinings a bos in your tht, so has the e body.
it groht; and it is not dreamless. does not your house dream? and dreng, leave the city for grove or hilltop?
ather your houses into my hand, and like a soreen paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come rance of the earth in your garments.
but these things are not yet to be.
in their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. and that fear shall endure a little longer. a little longer shall your city uard e that reveals your polimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of that enters the house a guest, and becomes a host, and then a master?
ay, and it becomes a tamer, and e makes puppets of your larger desires.
though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.
it lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.
it makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledoile vessels.
verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then rinning in the funeral.
but you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.
your house shall be not an anchor but a mast; it shall not be a glistening film that covers a uards the eye. you shall not fold your s that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest .
and though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.
for that mist and s and the silences of night.
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