There Is A Place Hung O'Er Of Summer Boughs And Dreamy Skies Wherein The Gray Hawk Sleeps; Where Water Flows, Within Whose Lazy Deeps, Like Silvery Prisms Where The Sunbeams Drowse, The Minnows Twinkle; Where The Bells Of Cows Tinkle The Stillness; And The Bobwhite Keeps Calling From Meadows Where The Reaper Reaps, And Children'S Laughter Haunts An Oldtime House: A Place Where Life Wears Ever An Honest Smell Of Hay And Honey, Sun And Elder-Bloom, - Like Some Sweet, Simple 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.