When my spirit tires and my mind is fraught
With the twin monsters of doubt and despair,
Then I escape to the Wilde Brooks I’ve sought,
A poet’s refuge, to heal my soul there.
My Mew in Green, my so secret a place,
Is a Lodge on the Ridge by Waters Still.
At the foot of a great Stone Cliff it May
Hide my heart there and my spirit refill.
Moss Coates the rocks of the old Gray Bridges
As Brooks wander down touched by Goldsmith hand
And the Browning oaks Riding the Ridge’s
Sharp spine keep me safe as on guard they stand.
Come be my Guest, a King’s Ransom awaits
Of Wordsworth their weight in Childish delight.
We’ll ponder the Wolfe and the Lamb whose fate
Are in the hands of the Masters who Wright.