Methinks That To Some Vacant Hermitage 'My' Feet Would Rather Turn To Some Dry Nook Scooped Out Of Living Rock, And Near A Brook Hurled Down A Mountain-Cove From Stage To Stage, Yet Tempering, For My Sight, Its Bustling Rage In The Soft Heaven Of A Translucent Pool; Thence Creeping Under Sylvan Arches Cool, Fit Haunt Of Shapes Whose Glorious Equipage Would Elevate My Dreams. A Beechen Bowl, A Maple Dish, My Furniture Should Be; Crisp, Yellow Leaves My Bed; The Hooting Owl My Night-Watch: Nor Should E'Er The Crested Fowl From Thorp Or Vill His Matins Sound For Me, Tired Of The World And All Its Industry.