' Well may'st thou halt, and gaze with brightening eye ! 

 The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 

 Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook, 

 Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ! 

 But covet not the Abode ; forbear to sigh. 

 As many do, repining while they look; 

 Intruders who would tear from Nature's book 

 This precious leaf with harsh impiety. 

 Think what the home must be if it were thine, 

 Even thine, though few thy wants ! Roof, window, door, 

 The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 

 The Roses to the porch which they entwine ; 

 Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day 

 On which it should be touched, would melt, and melt away.' 



W. WORDSWORTH 



