Meditations in Time of Civil War（二）

    My House

    An ancient bridge， and a more ancient tower，

    A farmhouse¹ that is sheltered by its wall，

    An acre of stony² ground，

    Where the symbolic³ rose can break in flower，

    Old ragged⁴ elms， old thorns innumerable，

    The sound of the rain or sound

    Of every wind that blows；

    The stilted⁵ water-hen

    Crossing stream again

    Scared by the splashing of a dozen cows；

    A winding⁶ stair， a chamber⁷ arched with stone，

    A grey stone fireplace with an open hearth⁸，

    A candle and written page.

    Il Penseroso‘s Platonist toiled⁹ on

    In some like chamber， shadowing forth¹⁰

    How the daemonic rage

    Imagined everything.

    Benighted¹¹ travellers

    From markets and from fairs

    Have seen his midnight candle glimmering¹².

    Two men have founded here. A man-at-arms

    Gathered a score of horse and spent his days

    In this tumultuous spot，

    Where through long wars and sudden night alarms

    His dwindling¹³ score and he seemed castaways

    Forgetting and forgot；

    And I， that after me

    My bodily heirs may find，

    To exalt¹⁴ a lonely mind，

    Befitting emblems¹⁵ of adversity.