EACH mortal builds his castles in the air, In country or in town, no matter where; Whether we sleep or wake, still are they made. The weary labourer, leaning on his spade, Can deem himself the squire of the place; Old age, in thought, the frosts of time efface; The clerk a minister, the priest 'my lord' Becomes. The bishop-- In a word, In dreams, no fate can with my own compare: Only believe you're happy, and you are. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN MEMORY OF GENERAL GRANT by HENRY ABBEY DESCRIPTIONS by VIRGINIA A. ALLIN THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 41. FAREWELL TO JULIET (3) by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT CHEDDAR PINKS by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES AMERICA AT ST. PAUL'S by MARGARETTA BYRDE TO MR. MURRAY (2) by GEORGE GORDON BYRON HUMANITY by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE MENU OF THE OMAR KHAYYAM CLUB (2) by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON |