Methinks that to some vacant hermitage

— by William Wordsworth

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; 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.