 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
MY PLEASURE-GROUND.
I covet not your gardens—what these areUnto the flowers in your window-sill,
Or drawing-room, themselves are (and not ill
So likened) to that garden, larger far,
And fairer, where I walk without a bar
Or hindrance: where I pay naught, yet am still
More richly entertained than kings, with skill
Divine, and splendor truly singular!
Rivers flow for me, mountains lift their heads,
And in their laps her flowery skirts Earth spreads
Accessible—the clouds for me are sights
Beyond kings' pageants, and, where-ever treads
My foot, as at its touch, spring new delights,
And music, filling earth's depths and heaven's heights!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |