My House
THERE is a place of dim, familiar things,Of contacts vaguely subtle to the touch—I call it home; in my imaginingsEach detail is of value overmuch.There is a place where every little nook,And every cupboard with its special smell,Are clear upon my mind as in a book,I love it with a love that’s hard to tell.There is a garden too where essencesOf flowers queerly mingle in the air,And butterflies, strange iridescences,Flutter about when evening enters there.
THERE is a place of dim, familiar things,Of contacts vaguely subtle to the touch—I call it home; in my imaginingsEach detail is of value overmuch.There is a place where every little nook,And every cupboard with its special smell,Are clear upon my mind as in a book,I love it with a love that’s hard to tell.There is a garden too where essencesOf flowers queerly mingle in the air,And butterflies, strange iridescences,Flutter about when evening enters there.
THERE is a place of dim, familiar things,Of contacts vaguely subtle to the touch—I call it home; in my imaginingsEach detail is of value overmuch.
THERE is a place of dim, familiar things,
Of contacts vaguely subtle to the touch—
I call it home; in my imaginings
Each detail is of value overmuch.
There is a place where every little nook,And every cupboard with its special smell,Are clear upon my mind as in a book,I love it with a love that’s hard to tell.
There is a place where every little nook,
And every cupboard with its special smell,
Are clear upon my mind as in a book,
I love it with a love that’s hard to tell.
There is a garden too where essencesOf flowers queerly mingle in the air,And butterflies, strange iridescences,Flutter about when evening enters there.
There is a garden too where essences
Of flowers queerly mingle in the air,
And butterflies, strange iridescences,
Flutter about when evening enters there.