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Poem	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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