Not here in the populous town, <br />In the playhouse or mart, <br />Not here in the ways gray and brown, <br />Bnt afar on the green-swelling down, <br />Is the home of my heart. <br /> <br />There the hillside slopes down to a dell <br />Whence a streamlet has start; <br />There are woods and sweet grass on the swell, <br />And the south winds and west know it well: <br />‘Tis the home of my heart. <br /> <br />There’s a cottage o’ershadowed by leaves <br />Growing fairer than art, <br />Where under the low sloping eaves - <br />No false hand the swallow bereaves: <br />‘Tis the home of my heart. <br /> <br />And there as you gaze down the lea, <br />Where the trees stand apart, <br />Over grassland and woodland may be <br />You will catch the faint gleam of the sea <br />From the home of my heart. <br /> <br />And there In the rapturous spring, <br />When the morning rays dart <br />O’er the plain, and the morning birds sing, <br />You may see the most beautiful thing <br />In the home of my heart; <br /> <br />For there at the casement above, <br />Where the rosebushes part, <br />Will blush the fair face of my love: <br />Ah, yes I It is this that will prove <br />‘Tis the home of my heart.<br /><br />Francis William Bourdillon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-home-of-my-heart/
