MY HOME

This is the place that I love the best, A little brown house like a ground-bird’s nest, Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees, Summer retreat of the birds and bees.

The tenderest light that ever was seen Sifts through the vine-made window screen— Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.

All through June, the west wind free The breath of the clover brings to me. All through the languid July day I catch the scent of the new-mown hay.

The morning glories and scarlet vine Over the doorway twist and twine; And every day, when the house is still, The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.

In the cunningest chamber under the sun I sink to sleep when the day is done; And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed, By a singing-bird on the roof o’erhead.

Better than treasures brought from Rome Are the living pictures I see at home— My aged father, with frosted hair, And mother’s face like a painting rare Far from the city’s dust and heat, I get but sounds and odours sweet. Who can wonder I love to stay, Week after week, here hidden away, In this sly nook that I love the best— The little brown house, like a ground-bird’s nest?