108
MEDITATIONS
Stratford-on-Avon—
Poesy-paven—
I'll find a haven
There, somehow!—
Nay—I'm but caught of
Dreams long thought of,
The Swan knows nought of
His Avon now!
What shall it be, then,
I go to see, then,
Under the plea, then,
Of votary?
I'll go to Lakeland,
Lakeland, Lakeland,
Certainly Lakeland
Let it be.
But—why to that place,
That place, that place,
Such a hard come-at place
Need I fare?
When its bard cheers no more,
Loves no more, fears no more,
Sees no more, hears no more
Anything there!
Ah, there is Scotland,
Burns's Scotland,
And Waverley's. To what land
Better can I hie?—
