  I have a place in a little garden, That laurel-leaf and fern Keep a cool place though fires of summer All the green grasses burn. Little cool winds creep there about When winds all else are dead, And tired limbs there find gentle keeping, And humours of sloth are shed. So do your songs come always to me, Poets of age and age, Clear and cool as rivers of wind Threading my hermitage, Stilling my mind from tribulation Of life half-seen, half-heard, With images made in the brain’s quietness, And the leaping of a word. |
|
