My Home
“This is the place which 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 newmown 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
The little brown house like a ground-bird’s nest.
—Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
The End