Elinor Wylie

Sanctuary

This is the bricklayer; hear the thud 
Of his heavy load dumped down on stone. 
His lustrous bricks are brighter than blood, 
His smoking mortar whiter than bone.

Set each sharp-edged, fire-bitten brick 
Straight by the plumb-line’s shivering length; 
Make my marvelous wall so thick 
Dead nor living may shake its strength.

Full as a crystal cup with drink 
Is my cell with dreams, and quiet, and cool. . . . 
Stop, old man! You must leave a chink; 
How can I breathe? You can’t, you fool!