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Francis William Bourdillon

(22 March 1852 – 13 January 1921 / Runcorn, Cheshire)

The Home of My Heart


Not here in the populous town,
In the playhouse or mart,
Not here in the ways gray and brown,
Bnt afar on the green-swelling down,
Is the home of my heart.

There the hillside slopes down to a dell
Whence a streamlet has start;
There are woods and sweet grass on the swell,
And the south winds and west know it well:
‘Tis the home of my heart.

There’s a cottage o’ershadowed by leaves
Growing fairer than art,
Where under the low sloping eaves -
No false hand the swallow bereaves:
‘Tis the home of my heart.

And there as you gaze down the lea,
Where the trees stand apart,
Over grassland and woodland may be
You will catch the faint gleam of the sea
From the home of my heart.

And there In the rapturous spring,
When the morning rays dart
O’er the plain, and the morning birds sing,
You may see the most beautiful thing
In the home of my heart;

For there at the casement above,
Where the rosebushes part,
Will blush the fair face of my love:
Ah, yes I It is this that will prove
‘Tis the home of my heart.

Submitted: Thursday, April 08, 2010

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