<h2><SPAN name="page146"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>MY HOME</h2>
<p class="poetry">This is the place that I love the best,<br/>
A little brown house like a ground-bird’s nest,<br/>
Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees,<br/>
Summer retreat of the birds and bees.</p>
<p class="poetry">The tenderest light that ever was seen<br/>
Sifts through the vine-made window screen—<br/>
Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls<br/>
On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.</p>
<p class="poetry">All through June, the west wind free<br/>
The breath of the clover brings to me.<br/>
All through the languid July day<br/>
I catch the scent of the new-mown hay.</p>
<p class="poetry">The morning glories and scarlet vine<br/>
Over the doorway twist and twine;<br/>
And every day, when the house is still,<br/>
The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page147"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
147</span>In the cunningest chamber under the sun<br/>
I sink to sleep when the day is done;<br/>
And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed,<br/>
By a singing-bird on the roof o’erhead.</p>
<p class="poetry">Better than treasures brought from Rome<br/>
Are the living pictures I see at home—<br/>
My aged father, with frosted hair,<br/>
And mother’s face like a painting rare<br/>
Far from the city’s dust and heat,<br/>
I get but sounds and odours sweet.<br/>
Who can wonder I love to stay,<br/>
Week after week, here hidden away,<br/>
In this sly nook that I love the best—<br/>
The little brown house, like a ground-bird’s nest?</p>
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