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the poet's home.
But low down in the village
Is a cottage, white and small,
And to me that cottage seemeth
More glorious than all!
Is a cottage, white and small,
And to me that cottage seemeth
More glorious than all!
From out its portal floweth
A tide of minstrelsy,
That rolleth as a river,
And soundeth as the sea!
A tide of minstrelsy,
That rolleth as a river,
And soundeth as the sea!
If in storm-shocks meet its waters,
Or in summer quiet glide,
A sun that knows no setting
Smiles on the crystal tide;—
Or in summer quiet glide,
A sun that knows no setting
Smiles on the crystal tide;—
A sun across whose brightness
No lightest cloud is driven,—
The constant, kind approval,
The blessed love of Heaven.
No lightest cloud is driven,—
The constant, kind approval,
The blessed love of Heaven.
