`Were I a Poet, I would dwell, br Not upon lonely height, br Nor cloistered in disdainful cell br From human sound and sight. br I would live nestled near my kind, br Deep in a garden garth, br That they who loved my verse might find br A pathway to my hearth. br br `I would not sing of sceptred Kings, br The Tyrant and his thrall, br But everyday pathetic things, br That happen to us all: br The love that lasts through joy, through grief, br The faith that never wanes, br And every wilding bird and leaf br That gladdens English lanes. br br `Nor would I shape for Fame my lay, br But only for the sake br Of singing, and to charm away br My own or other's ache; br To close the wound, to soothe the smart, br To heal the feud of years, br And move the misbelieving heart br To tenderness and tears. br br `And when to me should come the night, br And I could sing no more, br And faithful lips could but recite br What I had sung before, br I would not have a pompous strain br Resound about my shroud, br Nor sepulchre in sumptuous fane, br Near to the great and proud. br br `But only they who loved me best br Should bear me and my lyre, br And lay us, with my kin, at rest br Under the hamlet spire, br Where everything around still breathes br Of prayer that soothes and saves, br And widowed hands bear cottage wreaths br To unforgotten graves. br br `And they might raise another cross br Within that hallowed ground, br And tend the flowers and trim the moss br About my grassy mound; br But, honouring me, would carve above br No impious boast of Fame, br And, not for Glory, but for Love, br Would keep alive my name.