I wrote of my house of dreams one day My 'Vagabond's House', I told the way That the rugs were laid across the floor, I told of the walls and the panelled door The bits of laquer, the Concert-Grand The favorite pictures on the wall The woven silk of a faded shawl, The  jars of spices along a shelf I told of the things I chose myself To grace my house ...those priceless things That an hour of idle dreaming brings   So vividly real it sometimes seemed That I quite forgot that I only dreamed, That the walls were smoke, the colors gay Were a dear mirage that would fade away So I wrote as though the house were real. The book went forth and made appeal To some far person in some far land I know, for a letter came to hand.... 'Dear Friend,' it said, 'I don't know you, But I am a dreamer and a vagabond, too, And the house you built of fragile stuff Is the same as mine, If we dream enough, If we strive and work, I truly feel That we can make our houses real. And if mine comes true and I build some day A house of wood or stone or clay In a summer land by a drowsy sea I hope you will come and visit me For the door will open to rooms beyond For poet and artist and vagabond, A cozy chair and the table set, A book and a drink and a cigarrete, A shaded light with an orange glow ... All the things we love and know.   It may be never, it may be soon But I hope maybe some afternoon I'll hear a step on the creaking stair ... I'll open the door and you'll be there. ---- From Vagabond's House                      Don Blanding, 1928