I, too, own a hermit’s heart,
Swift at aught unknown to start:
And I, too, am walled about,
Though the sunbeams find me out.
Scarce I see the stirring world
More than thou the brook breeze-curled,
But must make, like thee, delight
From a few small pebbles white;
Trifles, that may fancy bear
To some rippled pleasance rare.