XXII

Methinks that to some vacant hermitage

My feet would rather turn — to some dry nook

Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook

Hurled down a mountain-cove from stage to stage,

Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling rage

In the soft heaven of a translucent pool;

Thence creeping under sylvanarches cool,

Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage

Would elevatemy dreams.A beechen bowl,

A maple dish, my furniture should be;

Crisp, yellow leaves my bed; the hooting owl

My night-watch: nor should e'er the crested fowl

From thorp or vill his matins sound for me,

Tired of the world and all its industry.