CCXCVI Admonition to a Traveller
Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
—The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
Hath stirr’d thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
But covet not the abode; forbear to sigh
As many do, repining while they look;
Intruders—who would tear from Nature’s book
This precious leaf with harsh impiety.
—Think what the home must be if it were thine,
Even thine, though few thy wants!—Roof, window, door,
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
The roses to the porch which they entwine:
Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day
On which it should be touch’d, would melt away!
W. Wordsworth