A house is such a stagnant thing,
a creaking step, a distant ring
are all the noises I expect
to graze my dosing intellect.
Yes, everything is sure.

I know each step, each hall, each door-
no winding paths here to explore!
No creatures, save those sterilized
that mope about with drowsy eyes,
so fat, lethargic, slow.

The slightest whim's at my command
for with one movement of the hand
it's day or night, it's cold or hot
the ground's a stone or furry spot.
Surprises are unknown.

Supposedly what will ensue
is that I hate my home-untrue!
I'm thankful that I might abide
away from nature's force, inside,
a shelter from a storm

As long as I may wander free
into the vast extremity
of wild earth and foaming shores,
of pines and fields for miles more,
home's rest a welcome end.