The Poetry Corner

My Early Home

By John Clare

Here sparrows build upon the trees, And stockdove hides her nest; The leaves are winnowed by the breeze Into a calmer rest; The black-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 sweetbriar bush Drop't 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 are here all green agen, Here bees the flowers still kiss, But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then: My early home was this.