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?