EACH mortal builds his castles in the air, In country or in town, no matter where; Whether we sleep or wake, still are they made. The weary labourer, leaning on his spade, Can deem himself the squire of the place; Old age, in thought, the frosts of time efface; The clerk a minister, the priest 'my lord' Becomes. The bishop-- In a word, In dreams, no fate can with my own compare: Only believe you're happy, and you are. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FALLOW DEER AT THE LONELY HOUSE by THOMAS HARDY SEVEN TIMES FOUR [ - MATERNITY] by JEAN INGELOW TO MY BOOKSELLER by BEN JONSON REQUIEM FOR ONE SLAIN IN BATTLE by GEORGE LUNT PENTRIDGE BY THE RIVER by WILLIAM BARNES |