Man thinks more of his heart

Man thinks more of his heart than of anything else
More than of earth and sky, or the sleep of September,
 The sensuous whirl of the silken and slumberous waltz,
 Voices that plead and sing, or the cool and limber
 Boughs of the maple. Man cannot bear to miss
 The music of the summer; but he stands
Safe in the doorway of his heart's dark house
 To count the stars and listen to the winds.
And, while the winter calls, he is content
 To read beside a fire of his own making
Deep in the inmost room till it is spent.
And, when the house grows chill, he rises, liking
 To pause at last with poems in his head,
And, closing his book, go decently to bed.

 JAMES E. WARREN, JR.