Across the girdling city’s hum.
How green under the boughs it is!
How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come!
To take his nurse his broken toy;
Sometimes a thrush flit overhead
Deep in her unknown day’s employ.
Here at my feet what wonders pass,
What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!
An air-stirr’d forest, fresh and clear.
Where the tired angler lies, stretch’d out,
And, eased of basket and of rod,
Counts his day’s spoil, the spotted trout.
Be others happy if they can!
But in my help less cradle I
Was breathed on by the rural Pan.
Think often, as I hear them rave,
That peace has left the upper world
And now keeps only in the grave.
When I who watch them am away,
Still all things in this glade go through
The changes of their quiet day.
The flowers upclose, the birds are fed,
The night comes down upon the grass,
The child sleeps warmly in his bed.
To feel, amid the city’s jar,
That there abides a peace of thine,
Man did not make, and cannot mar.
The will to neither strive nor cry,
The power to feel with others give!
Calm, calm me more! nor let me die
Relax with coffee and a bun or some fish and chips in the beauty of Second Life`s Kensington Gardens.