I feel most comforted in a silent house, don’t you?

Its sighs can be heard with the nighttime wind, on the quiet street

It murmurs, content or wistful—

I was never much for reading houses.

A silent house tells of still, of calm

No rushing river of people, shouting their shouts and noising their noise

Just quiet, an edifice at ease

Tomorrow there will be sound by seven

Or if the occupants are late sleepers, perhaps by ten

Clanking of cups and silverware

The house must waken again, disgruntled

That its tranquil hush has been disturbed

But in the small hours of the morning, friendly and purple-gray,

The house sits, thoughtful or peaceful—

I was never much for reading houses.

I conjecture, however, that it and I

Enjoy the quiet together, complicit

In our antisocial yearnings for the absence of sound

Of harry and hurry

Of the everyday

No, we long for something more mysterious

Something lovely and strange in the twilight shade

Like—

Like hush, and silent houses.