This Is The Place That I Love The Best, A Little Brown House Like A Ground-Bird'S Nest, Hid Among Grasses, And Vines, And Trees, Summer Retreat Of The Birds And Bees. The Tenderest Light That Ever Was Seen Sifts Through The Vine-Made Window Screen - Sifts And Quivers, And Flits And Falls On Home-Made Carpets And Gray-Hung Walls. All Through June, The West Wind Free The Breath Of The Clover Brings To Me. All Through The Languid July Day I Catch The Scent Of The New-Mown Hay. The Morning Glories And Scarlet Vine Over The Doorway Twist And Twine; And Every Day, When The House Is Still, The Humming-Bird Comes To The Window-Sill. In The Cunningest Chamber Under The Sun I Sink To Sleep When The Day Is Done; And Am Waked At Morn, In My Snow-White Bed, By A Singing-Bird On The Roof O'Erhead. Better Than Treasures Brought From Rome Are The Living Pictures I See At Home - My Aged Father, With Frosted Hair, And Mother'S Face Like A Painting Rare Far From The City'S Dust And Heat, I Get But Sounds And Odours Sweet. Who Can Wonder I Love To Stay, Week After Week, Here Hidden Away, In This Sly Nook That I Love The Best - The Little Brown House, Like A Ground-Bird'S Nest?