Alexander Pope at Twickenham

Swift is at sea already, returning to Ireland
  to raise his hyssop sponge
Into the face of that harried land

Leaving me here to my dwarf enclosure
  five acres of retirement
A buttonhole whose gap would disappear

Amid the uniform estates of Bathurst's Cirencester,
  a curiosity, a topographic fragment.
Here this last week Swift's de-commissioned jester

Traded rhymes with an unlicensed fool:
  now cloistered in the silence
I bend back to my cursive minuscule.

Twickenham: home to my softly-spoken house
  edged with a rainbow of flowers
And lifted lightly from Palladio's shadows.
...