  There is a place hung o'er with summer boughs And drowsy skies wherein the gray hawk sleeps; Where waters flow, within whose lazy deeps, Like silvery prisms that the winds arouse, The minnows twinkle; where the bells of cows Tinkle the stillness, and the bob-white keeps Calling from meadows where the reaper reaps, And children's laughter haunts an old-time house; A place where life wears ever an honest smell Of hay and honey, sun and elder-bloom— Like some dear, modest girl—within her hair: Where, with our love for comrade, we may dwell Far from the city's strife whose cares consume— Oh, take my hand and let me lead you there. |
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