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 clover brings to me.
 
All through the languid July day 
I catch the scent of 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 odors sweet.
 
Who can wonder I love to stay, 
Week after week, here hidden away, 
In this sly nook that I love the best-- 
This little brown house like a ground-bird's nest?

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