An Old farm-house with meadows wide, And sweet with clover on each side; A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out The door with woodbine wreathed about And wishes his one thought all day: “O, if I could but fly away From this dull spot, the world to see, How happy, happy, happy, How happy I should be!” Amid the city’s constant din, A man who round the world has been, Who, mid the tumult and the throng, Is thinking, thinking all day long: “O, could I only tread once more The field-path to the farm-house door, The old, green meadow could I see, How happy, happy, happy, How happy I should be!”
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Poems of Home: V. The Home