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.