Of orange-groves, and cloister'd courts, of fountains, and of pines,
Black shadows at whose edge the sun intolerably shines,
Of tumbled mountain heights, like waves on some Titanic sea,
Caught by an age of ice at once, and fix'd eternally.
Of quiet river-villages, which woods and waters frame,
Lull'd in the lap of loveliness to the music of their name;
Of fallow-fields, of sheltered farms, of moorland and of mere:
Let others roam—I stay at home, and find their beauties here.
Not when the sun on London town incongruously smiles,
On the news-boys, and the traffic, and the advertisers' wiles;