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THE POET'S HOME.
We have struggled up the hill-side,
We stand upon its brow,—
O, lovely as a dream of heaven,
The scene before us now!
We have struggled up the hill-side,
We stand upon its brow,—
O, lovely as a dream of heaven,
The scene before us now!
There singeth past the woodlands,
Where the listening aspens quiver,
There shineth through the meadows,
The beautiful, bright river.
Where the listening aspens quiver,
There shineth through the meadows,
The beautiful, bright river.
And, farther off, old Ocean
Is lying at his rest,
With the warm and gentle sunlight
Asleep upon his breast.
Is lying at his rest,
With the warm and gentle sunlight
Asleep upon his breast.
