It was just outside of the village,

In a cool, sequestered nook,

On the right was the murmuring forest,

On the left was the babbling brook.

Behind, the o’ershadowing mountain

Reared its gray old head to the sky,

While before it, the widening valley

Stretched out like a sea to the eye.

’Twas a rare, sweet spot, and a lovely

As ever this fair world knew;

There spring came earliest always,

And summer the latest withdrew.

Day reluctantly left it at evening,

And hastened to greet it at dawn,

And stars, birds, and flowers loved to visit

The place where my mother was born.