Written With A Pencil Upon A Stone In The Wall Of The House, On The Island At Grasmere

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained Proportions more harmonious, and approached To closer fellowship with ideal grace. But take it in good part: alas! the poor Vitruvius of our village had no help From the great City; never, upon leaves Of red Morocco folio, saw displayed, In long succession, pre-existing ghosts Of Beauties yet unborn the rustic Lodge Antique, and Cottage with verandah graced, Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove, Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined hermitage. Thou see'st a homely Pile, yet to these walls The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind. And hither does one Poet sometimes row His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled With plenteous store of heath and withered fern, (A lading which he with his sickle cuts, Among the mountains) and beneath this roof He makes his summer couch, and here at noon Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep, Panting beneath the burthen of their wool, Lie round him, even as if they were a part Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed He looks, through the open door-place, toward the lake And to the stirring breezes, does he want Creations lovely as the work of sleep     Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy!