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 sylvan arches cool, Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage Would elevate my 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REVELRY OF THE DYING by BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING THE WARNING by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE DOVE by ABUL HASAN OF SEVILLE TO ROBERT SOUTHEY by MARIA GOWEN BROOKS THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: THE CANTICLE OF LOVE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |