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!
