Here in the upper tower I weary sit

In dim communion with my books

And men who wrote then long ago,

Till my eyes go from the printed page

Over the littered table to the port

That looks down across the town.

I see the roofs in pattern spread

In every varied shape and way;

Some brown, some gray, or red,

Or blackened where the beating sun

Paints the tiles a weathered hue.

There the walls and towers of the castle

Rise up staunch and firm,

And from each rounded stony peak

The pennons flutter in the breeze.

I see the glint of sun on mail,

Where yeomen pace the wall,

And from the courtyard gate there comes

The Duke's procession led by drums;

Then ladies proud in velvet gay

Are hid behind the tortuous way

Of streets that twisting run

In maze about the ancient town.

So, coming back from window dreams

I frown, and bend my gaze to books,

And work that must be done.