V

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane

      In some untrodden region of my mind,

Where branched thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain,52

      Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:

Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees

      Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;

And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,

      The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep;

And in the midst of this wide quietness

A rosy sanctuary will I dress

With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,60

      With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,

With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,

      Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:

And there shall be for thee all soft delight

                        That shadowy thought can win,

A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,

                        To let the warm Love in!