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
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 lull’d 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,
With buds and bells and stars without a name,
With all the gardener-Fancy e’er could feign,
Who plucking a thousand flower and never breeding flowers will breed plucks the same
So bower’d Goddess will I worship thee
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 glide in.