  O who would live in a cottage close, Shut in like a captive bird? I would sooner have a tent like mine, Within the shade of a fragrant pine, Where the breaking waves are heard,— Are heard, The breaking waves are heard. The song of winds in the sweet pine tree, The waters that kiss the shore, The white-winged sea-bird's mellow cry, Mingled in one sweet melody, Steals softly in at my door,— My door, Steals in at my open door. All day I sing and read and sew, Beneath this sheltering pine, Kissed by cool breezes from the sea, And people passing envy me, And wish for a tent like mine,— Like mine, For a cosy tent like mine.
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