Volume 147 — THE COTTAGE.

I know a wood on the top of a hill, Hyacinth-carpeted March till May, Where nights are wonderful, soft and still, And a deep-sea twilight hangs all day; The loving labour of fairy hands Has made it heavenly fine to see, And just outside it the cottage stands, The cottage that doesn't belong to me. A cottage, mind, And I'm sure you'd find It was damp and dirty and very confined; Oh, quite an ordinary keeper's cottage That doesn't belong to me. Creatures people the wood at night; Peaceable animals come and play; Pan's own pipes, if you hear aright, Charm you on as you go your way; And all the Arcady folk of yore Make songs of the days that used to be, Which carry perhaps to the cottage door, The cottage that doesn't belong to me. But it's miles from town And it's tumble-down, And the woodwork's done and the slates are brown; No one could really live in the cottage That doesn't belong to me. Fair be the towns by the river-side, Maidenhead, Richmond, Henley, Kew, Crammed with cottages far and wide, The thing for people like me and you; But I think of the haunting forest-lights And a path that wanders from tree to tree, Where the man of the cottage might walk o' nights, The cottage that doesn't belong to me. And it may be wrong, But it won't be long Before the feeling becomes too strong And I'll go and jolly well get that cottage That doesn't belong to me.