The wind doth rage upon the shed, like some
Great galleon tossed upon the angry sea;
The creaking and rattling drafts doth blast like foam
Through cracks and crevices, as if to flee
The tempest's fury, yet the tree leaves seem
To welcome it, as if to say, "Come, dream
Of distant shores, and far-off lands of gold,
Where sun-kissed maidens dance upon the wold."

The shed is tossed and turned, as if it were
A ship upon the waves, and yet I feel
No fear, but rather joy, as if I were
Upon some great adventure, far and free.
The wind doth howl, the rain doth beat, until
I sit within the shed, and dream on still.

So let the storm rage on, I care not, for
I am content, within this little fort,
Where I can dream of far-off lands and seas,
And all the wonders that the world holds free.

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