You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?
Heard of, but never seen.
Call it a cottage, if you like,
or a fortress with four walls;
Eden is not better hidden
than the Good Lady’s house.
What doors there are, what gates,
open when and where she bids them;
no path will wend her way,
no wolf prowl, no traveler knock,
but one — the Sun himself, who
each night, bent-backed and ancient,
knocks thrice upon her door
and hobbles slowly in. Then, suddenly,
at the moment his feet touch the threshold,
he springs upright, sprightly as a colt,
glowing like honey in a red glass jar.
Such is the magic of the place, you see,
that Death himself will not enter
unless invited in.