Lyrical Ballads, with other poems, by William Wordsworth

Inscription for the House (an Out-house) on the Island at Grasmere

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen

Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintain’d

Proportions more harmonious, and approach’d

To somewhat of a closer fellowship

With the ideal grace. Yet as it is

Do take it in good part; for he, the poor

Vitruvius of our village, had no help

From the great city; never on the leaves

Of red Morocco folio saw display’d

The skeletons and preexisting ghosts

Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,

Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.

It is a homely pile, yet to these walls

The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here

The new-dropp’d lamb finds shelter from the wind.

And hither does one Poet sometimes row

His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled

With plenteous store of heath and wither’d fern,

A lading which he with his sickle cuts

Among the mountains, and beneath this roof

He makes his summer couch, and here at noon

Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unborn, the sheep

Panting beneath the burthen of their wool

Lie round him, even as if they were a part

Of his own household: nor, while from his bed

He through that door-place looks toward the lake

And to the stirring breezes, does he want

Creations lovely as the work of sleep,

Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy.

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 12:02