To your hermitage here on the top of the mountain I have climbed, without stopping, these ten miles. I have knocked at your door, and no one answered; I have peeped into your room, at your seat beside the table. Perhaps you are out riding in your canopied chair, Or fishing, more likely, in some autumn pool. Sorry though I am to be missing you, You have become my meditation -- The beauty of your grasses, fresh with rain, And close beside your window the music of your pines. I take into my being all that I see and hear, Soothing my senses, quieting my heart; And though there be neither host nor guest, Have I not reasoned a visit complete? ...After enough, I have gone down the mountain. Why should I wait for you any longer?