The Poetry Corner

To My Cottage.

By John Clare

Thou lowly cot, where first my breath I drew, Past joys endear thee, childhood's past delight; Where each young summer's pictur'd on my view; And, dearer still, the happy winter-night, When the storm pelted down with all his might, And roar'd and bellow'd in the chimney-top, And patter'd vehement 'gainst the window-light, And on the threshold fell the quick eaves-drop. How blest I've listen'd on my corner stool, Heard the storm rage, and hugg'd my happy spot, While the fond parent wound her whirring spool, And spar'd a sigh for the poor wanderer's lot. In thee, sweet hut, this happiness was prov'd, And thee endear and make thee doubly lov'd.