A Landscape

I would, when I compose my solemn verse, Sleep near the heaven as do astrologers, Near the high bells, and with a dreaming mind Hear their calm hymns blown to me on the wind.

Out of my tower, with chin upon my hands, I'll watch the singing, babbling human bands; And see clock-towers like spars against the sky, And heavens that bring thoughts of eternity;

And softly, through the mist, will watch the birth Of stars in heaven and lamplight on the earth; The threads of smoke that rise above the town; The moon that pours her pale enchantment down.

Seasons will pass till Autumn fades the rose; And when comes Winter with his weary snows, I'll shut the doors and window-casements tight, And build my faery palace in the night.

Then I will dream of blue horizons deep; Of gardens where the marble fountains weep; Of kisses, and of ever-singing birds-- A sinless Idyll built of innocent words.

And Trouble, knocking at my window-pane And at my closet door, shall knock in vain; I will not heed him with his stealthy tread, Nor from my reverie uplift my head;

For I will plunge deep in the pleasure still Of summoning the spring-time with my will, Drawing the sun out of my heart, and there With burning thoughts making a summer air.