Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen 
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained 
Proportions more harmonious, and approached 
To closer fellowship with ideal grace. 
But take it in good part:--alas! the poor 
Vitruvius of our village had no help 
From the great City; never, upon leaves 
Of red Morocco folio, saw displayed, 
In long succession, pre-existing ghosts 
Of Beauties yet unborn--the rustic Lodge 
Antique, and Cottage with verandah graced, 
Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove, 
Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined hermitage. 
Thou see'st a homely Pile, yet to these walls 
The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here 
The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind. 
And hither does one Poet sometimes row 
His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled 
With plenteous store of heath and withered fern, 
(A lading which he with his sickle cuts, 
Among the mountains) and beneath this roof 
He makes his summer couch, and here at noon 
Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep, 
Panting beneath the burthen of their wool, 
Lie round him, even as if they were a part 
Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed 
He looks, through the open door-place, toward the lake 
And to the stirring breezes, does he want 
Creations lovely as the work of sleep-- 
Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy!