Here sparrows build upon the trees,
And stock dove hides her nest:
The leaves are winnowed by the breeze
Into a calmer rest.

The back-cap's song was very sweet;
That used the rose to kiss;
It made the paradise complete,
My early home was this.

The red-breast from the sweetbrier bush
Dropped down to pick the worm;
On the horse-chestnut sang the thrush,
O'er the house where I was born.



The moonlight, like a shower of pearls,
Fell o'er this ' bower of bliss,'
And on the bench sat boys and girls;
My early home was this.

The old house stooped just like a cave,
Thatched o'er with mosses green;
Winter around the walls would rave,
But all was calm within.

The trees here are all green again,
Here bees the flowers still kiss,
But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then;
My early home was this.

~ John Clare ~