In this my den the haunting muse Sometimes my wayward thought pursues And leads it to a sylvan nook To rest beside a purling brook— The very spot that one would choose. Then what delight it brings to lose All consciousness of sounds that bruise The mind; of paper, pen and book In this my den. Outside, the city's thunders fuse In one dull roar, and passing shoes Squeak by my door; and if I look One moment from my dream the crook Of fate recalls me to—"the blues" In this my den. |