My House

    An ancient bridge， and a more ancient tower，

    A farmhouse that is sheltered by its wall，

    An acre of stony ground，

    Where the symbolic rose can break in flower，

    Old ragged elms， old thorns innumerable，

    The sound of the rain or sound

    Of every wind that blows；

    The stilted water-hen

    Crossing stream again

    Scared by the splashing of a dozen cows；

    A winding stair， a chamber arched with stone，

    A grey stone fireplace with an open hearth，

    A candle and written page.

    Il Penseroso‘s Platonist toiled on

    In some like chamber， shadowing forth

    How the daemonic rage

    Imagined everything.

    Benighted travellers

    From markets and from fairs

    Have seen his midnight candle glimmering.

    Two men have founded here. A man-at-arms

    Gathered a score of horse and spent his days

    In this tumultuous spot，

    Where through long wars and sudden night alarms

    His dwindling score and he seemed castaways

    Forgetting and forgot；

    And I， that after me

    My bodily heirs may find，

    To exalt a lonely mind，

    Befitting emblems of adversity.