A naked house, a naked moor,
A shivering pool before the door,
A garden base of flowers and fruit
And poplars at the garden foot:
Such is the place that I live in,
Beak without and bare within.

Yet shall your ragged moor receive
The incomparable pomp of eve,
And the cold glories of the down
Behind your shivering trees be drawn;
And when the wind from place to place
Doth the unmoored cloud-galleons chase,
Your garden gloom and gleam again,
With leaping sun, with glancing rain.
Here shall the wizard moon ascend
The heavens, in the crimson end
Of day's declining splendour; here
The army of the stars appear,
The neighbour hollows dry or wet,
Spring shall with tender flowers beset;
And oft the morning muser see
Larks rising from the broomy lea,
And every fairy wheel and thread
Of cobweb dew-diamonded
When daisies go, shall winter time
Silver the simple grass with rime;
Autumnal frosts enchant the pool
And when snow-bright the moor ponds,
How shall your children clap their hands!
To make this earth, our hermitage,
A cheerful and a changeful page,
God's bright and intricate device
Of days and seasons doth suffice.