My Home

Up by a leaping stream,
And cradled ’neath the hills,
The hallowed moments seem
Eternities of thrills.

The river runs its course
Half round my little nest,
Where birds are never hoarse
Singing in play and rest.

O’er the roof the cadenas creep,
Soft grasses clothe the lawn,
Which with the twilight weep
And pray for a new dawn.

At morn the butterflies
Are early on the wing,
And when the evening dies,
I hear the late bird sing.

There joy no sorrows mar,
Its cup is empty never,
Wherein griefs, falling, are
Lost in the depths forever.