Written with a pencil upon the wall of the house on the Island at Grasmere

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seenBuildings, albeit rude, that have maintainedProportions more harmonious, and approachedTo somewhat of a closer fellowshipWith the ideal grace. Yet as it isDo take it in good part:—alas! the poorVitruvius of our village, had no helpFrom the great City; never on the leavesOf red Morocco folio saw displayedThe skeletons and pre-existing ghostsOf Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.Thou seest a homely Pile, yet to these wallsThe heifer comes in the snow-storm, and hereThe new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind.And hither does one Poet sometimes rowHis Pinnace, a small vagrant Barge, up-piledWith plenteous store of heath and withered fern,(A lading which he with his sickle cutsAmong the mountains,) and beneath this roofHe makes his summer couch, and here at noonSpreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the SheepPanting beneath the burthen of their woolLie round him, even as if they were a partOf his own Household: nor, while from his bedHe through that door-place looks toward the lakeAnd to the stirring breezes, does he wantCreations lovely as the work of sleep,Fair sights—and visions of romantic joy!