Classic Poem

Is then the haven of my heart so near?
Or doth illusive fancy bid me mark
The cot embowered beside the ample park,
To me by triple pledge made triply dear?
September's scale suspends the waning year;
With mists the heights are grey, the valleys dark;
The shrouded sun seems shrunken to a spark;
And distances in dimness disappear.
Nor am I rightly ware what eyes survey,
Not of this region a familiar;
Yet with the eye the heart hath taken way,
Both overbrimmed; and blessing from afar
I call, and to the dubious inmates say,
Be ye most fortunate, whoe'er ye are!