O, open plateau, glittering pond, and love that calls!
Here, ah! here, to be gods, to forget!
Here to leave home and troubles that soil and blear.
Under the golden moon, when the sun has set,
Here to forget and kiss—O joy bought dear!
II
I love those small old houses, with bright front doors,
And shy windows that look on the Heath; they are quiet and gay:
Old books, old silver they have (that my heart adores)
And their women are slim, with soft voices; and kind things they say.