Charles Strong

MY window’s open to the evening sky,

The solemn trees are fringed with golden light,

The lawn here shadowed lies, there kindles bright,

And cherished roses lift their incense high:

The punctual thrush, on plane-tree warbling nigh,

With loud and luscious voice calls down the night;

Dim waters, flowing on with gentle might,

Between each pause are heard to murmur by.

The book that told of wars in holy land

(Nor less than Tasso sounded in mine ears)

Escapes unheeded from my listless hand.

Poets, whom Nature for her service rears,

Like priests in her great temple minist’ring stand,

But in her glory fade when she appears.