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And tell me... what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?
Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?
Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
Have you the beauty, that leads from the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
Tell me, have you these in your houses?
Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house as a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master?
... Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning to the funeral.
But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped or tamed. Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast...
You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through its doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling door, nor fear to breathe lest the walls should crack and fall down.
For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.