The House on the Hill
A simple rounded top in the shape of a dome;
It may just be a house, but you can call it home.
The days pass by and slowly become the night.
If you shiver from the cold, let it not be fright.
Riders leaving from the glowing mountains,
Circle the wagons and fill the fountains.
Built with care seven hundred years before;
Or so they say, in tales of ancient folklore.
Carefully crafted, every stud and brick lain
By freemasons who use umbrellas in the rain.