A HOUSE IN A WOOD
So ’tis your will to have a cell,My Betsey, of your own and dwellHere where the sun for ever shinesThat glances off the holly spines—A clearing where the trunks are fewHere shall be built a house for you,The little walls of beechen stakes,Wattled with twigs from hazel brakes,Tiled with white oak-chips that lie roundThe fallen giants on the ground;Under your little feet shall beA ground-work of wild strawberryWith gadding stem, a pleasant wortAlike for carpet and dessert.Here Betsey, in the lucid shade,Come, let us twine a green stockade,With slender saplings all about,And a small window to look out,So that you may be “Not at Home”If any mortal callers come.Then shall arrive to make you mirthThe four wise peoples of the earth:The thrifty ants who run aroundTo fill their store-rooms underground,The rabbit-folk, a feeble race,From out their rocky sleeping place,The grasshoppers who have no kingYet come in companies to sing,The lizard slim who shyly standsSwaying upon his slender hands—I’ll give them all your new address.For me, my little anchoress,I’ll never stir the bracken byYour house; the brown wood butterfly,Passing you like the sunshine’s fleckThat gilds the nape of your warm neck,Shall still report me how you doAnd bring me all the news of you,And tell me (where I sit alone)How gay you are and how you’re grownA fox-glove’s span in the soft weather.
So ’tis your will to have a cell,My Betsey, of your own and dwellHere where the sun for ever shinesThat glances off the holly spines—A clearing where the trunks are fewHere shall be built a house for you,The little walls of beechen stakes,Wattled with twigs from hazel brakes,Tiled with white oak-chips that lie roundThe fallen giants on the ground;Under your little feet shall beA ground-work of wild strawberryWith gadding stem, a pleasant wortAlike for carpet and dessert.Here Betsey, in the lucid shade,Come, let us twine a green stockade,With slender saplings all about,And a small window to look out,So that you may be “Not at Home”If any mortal callers come.Then shall arrive to make you mirthThe four wise peoples of the earth:The thrifty ants who run aroundTo fill their store-rooms underground,The rabbit-folk, a feeble race,From out their rocky sleeping place,The grasshoppers who have no kingYet come in companies to sing,The lizard slim who shyly standsSwaying upon his slender hands—I’ll give them all your new address.For me, my little anchoress,I’ll never stir the bracken byYour house; the brown wood butterfly,Passing you like the sunshine’s fleckThat gilds the nape of your warm neck,Shall still report me how you doAnd bring me all the news of you,And tell me (where I sit alone)How gay you are and how you’re grownA fox-glove’s span in the soft weather.
So ’tis your will to have a cell,My Betsey, of your own and dwellHere where the sun for ever shinesThat glances off the holly spines—A clearing where the trunks are fewHere shall be built a house for you,The little walls of beechen stakes,Wattled with twigs from hazel brakes,Tiled with white oak-chips that lie roundThe fallen giants on the ground;Under your little feet shall beA ground-work of wild strawberryWith gadding stem, a pleasant wortAlike for carpet and dessert.Here Betsey, in the lucid shade,Come, let us twine a green stockade,With slender saplings all about,And a small window to look out,So that you may be “Not at Home”If any mortal callers come.Then shall arrive to make you mirthThe four wise peoples of the earth:The thrifty ants who run aroundTo fill their store-rooms underground,The rabbit-folk, a feeble race,From out their rocky sleeping place,The grasshoppers who have no kingYet come in companies to sing,The lizard slim who shyly standsSwaying upon his slender hands—I’ll give them all your new address.For me, my little anchoress,I’ll never stir the bracken byYour house; the brown wood butterfly,Passing you like the sunshine’s fleckThat gilds the nape of your warm neck,Shall still report me how you doAnd bring me all the news of you,And tell me (where I sit alone)How gay you are and how you’re grownA fox-glove’s span in the soft weather.
No? Then we’ll wander home together.
No? Then we’ll wander home together.
No? Then we’ll wander home together.