Verse > William Wordsworth > Complete Poetical Works
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ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS

IN SERIES, 1821-22.

XXII. CONTINUED

          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;                       10
          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.


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